It was the last doorbell on the street and it belonged to a commuter�s dream, a white Cape Cod cottage with green shutters and a white picket fence completely surrounding the house and lot.

The realtors couldn�t have selected, for their advertising, a more appropriate housewife than the one who answered Frank Sargent�s ring on the doorbell. Her hair was a soft chestnut, only recently waved. She had the features and complexion of the Camel cigarette girl.

She had a figure, too.

Frank Sargent looked at her and felt resentment toward the man who had taken this girl out of circulation. He drew in his breath slowly and said:

�Good afternoon, madam. I represent the Trotter Institute of Public Opinion... I beg your pardon?�

�I said I wasn�t interested.�

�But I�m not selling anything. I merely want to ask you a few questions. You know � the Trotter Poll.�

�Please,� the photogenic housewife said. �Not now.�

She winced as a masculine voice called from inside the house. Sargent heard the words and he said, with dignity:

�I�m not selling brushes.�

The husband came up behind his wife. His face appeared over her shoulder and Sargent recoiled a step. It was the meanest, angriest face he had seen in many days. The face of a misanthrope.

�What the hell do you want?� the man snarled.

�Uh, er, ah, information,� Sargent stammered. �You see, I represent the Trotter Poll and��

�The Trotter Poll? That lousy outfit that said Willkie was going to be elected? I said last November that I�d skin a Trotter Poll man if I ever saw one and damned if I haven�t a good mind right now��

�What is your occupation, sir?� Sargent cut in.

�Trade paper editor. What the hell business is it of yours?�

�None, but we want a cross section of American life. To get the correct opinion��

�Correct? Were you correct last November? Why, you crooks ought to be put out of business, Your outfit�s no better than Business Journals, Incorporated. You�ve got no more right to conduct a poll than Ben Chapman has being a publisher, the lowdown, yellow-bellied, lying, cheating, double-crossing, stinking... ahrr...!� That was as far as the resident of the commuter�s dream could get. He began choking and coughing. Froth came to his lips and he pawed the air in frantic swipes. His wife threw her arms about him and tried valiantly to push him into the house.

�Please!� she cried over her shoulder to Sargent. �Please go away. You�re upsetting him. His nerves...�

�My nerves!� howled the husband. �To hell with my nerves. Stand up and fight like a man, you dirty swine. Come back here, you...�

That was as much as Sargent heard, for two reasons. One, because he was already opening the gate by the sidewalk at the moment and, two, because the beautiful young housewife had finally managed to shove her husband inside the house.

From a safe distance, Sargent regarded the house. He shook his head and said emphatically, �Whew!�

He crossed the street and picked out a house at random and when a middle-aged woman came to the door went into his routine.

�Since Labor has the right to organize for collective bargaining without hindrance of the employer, is it your opinion that men in the service, soldiers, sailors and marines, should also be permitted to unionize and bargain for better wages and working conditions?�

The woman blinked in astonishment and Sargent was compelled to repeat the question. When he received a hesitant reply, he wrote the answer on his chart and asked the second question:

�Since men on relief or WPA are accepting largess from the government, is it your opinion that they should be inducted into the service, in preference to taxpayers whose money has made it possible for the relief and WPA subsidy?�

Again Sargent got a stammering, hesitant reply and he cursed for the hundredth time, the brass hats of the home office who had an uncanny knack of phrasing the simplest questions in the most difficult, complicated sentences.

He made a deliberate job of filling in the case history of the quiz subject. Then asked casually, �By the way, can you tell me the name of the people in the white house across the street?�

�Oh, that�s the Pelkeys. A very nice young couple, although I do believe Mr. Pelkey has lost his position, as he�s been home all week and he never was off other days.�

�He�s an editor, isn�t he?�

�Why, he�s some sort of newspaperman. I�m not sure exactly what he does. They drive a small car and Mrs. Pelkey does her own work, you know. They can�t have such a very good income, I imagine. Although Mrs. Pelkey is an awfully attractive young woman.�

�Her name is Diana, isn�t it?�

�Diana? Oh, no. Hester. His name is Ernest. A nice man, but a bit quick-tempered at times. I�m not one to gossip, you know, but living practically across the street I can�t help but hear � well, his voice has been a bit sharp at times. Especially lately. Mmm, I wonder if the poor man is ill. I never thought of that. I must stop by sometime. Yes...�

�Thank you, madam,� Sargent cut in.

�Thank you. You�ll send me the results of the poll?�

�It�ll be in your newspaper,� Sargent said over his shoulder. He took the stairs to the street, two at a time, for he had seen Hester Pelkey come out of her house. She was coming toward him on the opposite side of the street.

He slackened his pace, so she would pass, then he suddenly hurried and cutting diagonally across the street, came up behind her.

�Mrs. Pelkey,� he said. �I want to apologize for making that scene...�

She whirled, startled. �Oh!� she gasped. Her face was white and taut. �It�s all right. I... I�m really the one who should apologize for Ernest. He�s ill � his nerves...�

She was the most beautiful woman Frank Sargent had ever seen in his life. Even now with tears threatening in her eyes, with her chin quivering.

�I understand,� he said. �I worked for a man once...�

�You never worked for anyone like Ben Chapman. He�s everything that Ernest said. Ernest really tried, too. Ben Chapman never let up on him. Oh! Why am I telling all this to you? Here�s my store; I�m sorry.�

She left Sargent abruptly to dart into a drugstore. Sargent looked through the window of the store a moment, then shook his head and walked on.

Several minutes later he reached the elevated platform and while waiting for a train consulted his chart. �That gives me enough individuals for today. Now I need three business men of the medium upper brackets. Say, the owner of a fair-sized store, perhaps a LaSalle Street broker and...� A gleam came into his eye. �A publisher. Yeah, a trade journal publisher. And maybe I can kill two birds with one stone. Satisfy my curiosity as to what sort of human animal this Ben Chapman is � and fill out a card!�

The offices of Business Journals, Incorporated, were in the Dockery Building, which was on Wells Street, near Harrison. The Dockery had been quite a building when it was erected after the Big Fire. It contained an open grillwork elevator manually operated by pulling a rope.

Business Journals, Incorporated was on the fourth floor. The offices consisted of one large room, which had been divided into numerous cubicles by partitions that did not reach the ceiling.

A redheaded girl with a goodly amount of oomph was sitting at a rickety desk trying to decipher shorthand notes from her book.

She seemed glad of an interruption. �What can I do for you?�

�I�d like to see Mr. Ben O. Chapman.�

�Naughty-naughty,� the stenographer replied astonishingly.

�Eh?�

�One of the boys was here yesterday. You shouldn�t ought to try it more than once a week.�

�I represent the Trotter Institute of Public Opinion,� Sargent said, �and I�m quite sure none of our men were here yesterday.�

�Huh? You�re not a process server?�

�Of course not! Why, is Chapman afraid of process servers?�

�He isn�t exactly afraid of them, but he doesn�t like them. Costs him five dollars every time they nail him. But he made a deal that they don�t come oftener than once a week... What�s this Institute of � what did you say?�

�The Trotter Poll. You know.�

�Can�t say that I do. What is it?�

�We ask questions, in order to��

�And do you listen, too? Then you�re just the man for Ben. He�ll tell you the story of his life. Just a mo�.�

Sargent stared after the redhead as she swung her hips to an office that was the last on the left-hand side. She went in and came out after only a moment.

�Okay,� she called.

Sargent walked down the aisle between the rows of cubicles. The doors of most of them were open and he caught a glimpse of a couple of youngish chaps huddled over desks, littered with books, magazines and printers� proofs.

Then he entered the office of Ben O. Chapman. The business journal publisher was slumped in a swivel chair, toying with a large pair of shears. He was a tall, pasty-faced man with thinning blond hair and the fishiest eyes Sargent had ever seen.

�My secretary said you represent some poll,� Chapman said.

�That�s right, the Trotter Institute of Public Opinion. If I could have a few moments of your time...�

�Well, I�m pretty busy, but go ahead. I didn�t believe you people actually had men on the road, judging from the ridiculous reports you release from time to time. Now, you take the presidential poll. Anyone could have told you that the rich people were for Willkie and the poor for Roosevelt and, since there are more poor people than rich, the result was a foregone conclusion.�

�The Institute doesn�t pretend to forecast an exact opinion,� Sargent interposed. �Despite the precision of our sampling, we allow four per cent for reasonable error and��

�Four percent isn�t close enough,� Ben Chapman cut in. �Not on important topics of the day. You�ve got to get it within one-tenth of one per cent to make your poll worth while. I learned that years ago. I conducted a poll of my own, when I was running the Sugar Beet Review. I wanted to find out whether people knew the difference between our domestic beet sugar and imported cane sugar. I decided that the best way to get an opinion was to take a representative cross section of public opinion. I hired a crew of canvassers, paying them so much per questionnaire...�

�That�s the way we work,� Sargent managed to say before Chapman waved him down with the shears.

�As I said, when I found out that the sugar beet industry was fighting a losing battle I got rid of the Sugar Beet Review. I never keep a magazine in a declining industry. I lost money on the Sugar Beet Review. Just a year before I sold it I turned down an offer of thirty thousand dollars. The biggest mistake I ever made in my life. A year later I gave the book away for five thousand dollars.

�I�ve been publishing trade papers for twenty-five years and you never can tell how a business is going. I�ve got a little turkey paper here, now, that�s an up and comer. It doesn�t carry much advertising at the present time, but I�m keeping it going because of the subscriptions. Two hundred a month, voluntarily. When you get a magazine like that you�ve got something.

�I�m sure of it,� said Sargent, �but if you don�t mind, I�d like to ask you a couple of questions.�

�First, I want to ask you something. Do you make a living at what you�re doing? Oh, I guess it�s a good enough proposition for a time or while you�re looking for something, but there�s no future in it. Now, you take trade journals. They took a nose dive during the depression, but they�re coining back. I�ve got a man here on one of my papers, smartest chap you ever saw. I pay him forty-five dollars a week, but he�s the sort that you can boost up to sixty dollars and he�ll still be worth the money. A marvelous writer and the trade likes him, too. His only trouble is playing the horses and I may have to fire him. You can�t trust a man who�ll spend half his time reading dope sheets.

�Now, I�ll tell you what I�ll do: I�ll start you out with thirty dollars and if you make good I�ll raise you to thirty-five after a couple of months. You�ll have complete charge of the magazine. I always give a man complete charge. If he makes good he gets the credit. If he flops � I know whom to blame.�

�But I�m not looking for a job!� Sargent cried desperately. �I represent the Trotter Institute of��

�Of course. I never hire a man who�s worked on a paper before. They think they know everything and sit around doing nothing. I claim I can hire a crackerjack stenographer for thirty-five dollars a week and train him to be an editor. I picked up young Thayer on a street corner and made him the best advertising salesman in the business. All I ask of a man is that he give me his loyalty and work no harder than I work myself. I haven�t even had a vacation this year. You�d think a man in my position should be able to take off a couple of months every year and travel, but Sligo�s not the sort of partner you can trust this business to. Which reminds me, I want you to understand that I�m hiring you and you take your orders from me and not Sligo. Understand?�

Sargent pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. �You mean... you�re hiring me as an editor?�

�Isn�t that what you came here for? I�ll start you with thirty-five, which is the most I ever start anyone with. Robertson!�

A tall, dark-complexioned young fellow of about thirty, stuck his head into the office.

�Robertson, I�m putting this man � by the way, what�s your name?�

�Frank Sargent.�

�Oh, yes, Sargent. I�m putting Sargent on Turkey Talk. Show him Pelkey�s office.�

Robertson inclined his head at Sargent and the latter followed to a cubicle about eight feet square, containing a battered desk, a swivel chair without casters, and an ancient typewriter which stood on the desk.

�Welcome to the menagerie,� Robertson said. �I�m Jim Robertson. I handle The Skating Rink.�

�That�s a trade journal for skaters?�

�No. Rinks. It goes to roller- and ice-skating rinks. I had a pair of roller skates once when I was a kid.� Robertson grinned crookedly. �Ben tell you the story of his life?�

�Eh?�

�Skip it. Well, anything you want to know about the place, I�m next door. Good luck.� Sargent was almost sure that Robertson had added �you�ll need it� under his breath, but the editor of The Skating Rink left him abruptly.

Sargent looked at the walls and the desk and finally tested the swivel chair without the casters. The spring was broken and he almost went over backward. When he regained his balance the redheaded stenographer was in his office.

�I�m Miss O�Kelly,� she said. �Mildred to the family. I hear you�re one of us.�

�So it seems. But look, what do I do?�

�Don�t you know? This is Ernie�s office, so I imagine you�re going to work on Turkey Talk.�

�Yes, so I understand. But... what do I do?�

�Why, you edit the magazine.�

�Where is it?�

�Oh, just a minute.� Mildred O�Kelly popped out of the office, but returned in a moment with a copy of Turkey Talk.

It was a fat little magazine, containing sixty-four pages, although rather small in format, six by nine inches, Sargent was to discover later. He turned the first page to the masthead and read the name, Ernest Pelkey, Managing Editor.

�By the way,� he said to Mildred O�Kelly, �what become of my predecessor? Did he quit?�

�Ernest? Why... uh, excuse me, I�ve got to transcribe a letter.�

The good-looking redhead disappeared. Sargent frowned at the open door, then shrugged and examined Turkey Talk. Obviously, it was a magazine devoted to turkey raising. Sargent supposed that turkeys were raised, although he�d never considered the matter before. Come to think of it, he had never seen a live turkey. He had eaten turkey, yes, but he had never seen a real, live turkey in his life.

Then, suddenly, the full import of his situation struck him and he sat in the swivel chair wide-eyed and open-mouthed. In River Forest he had seen a man on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The man had mentioned the name of Ben O. Chapman and because of idle curiosity � and because it was easier to follow through on even a vague lead than to pick a businessman out of a telephone book � he had come down to interview Ben O. Chapman. And instead of interviewing him, he had been employed as a trade paper editor.

Well, Chapman had guessed his situation well enough. He was doing field work for the Trotter Institute of Public Opinion because it was a fairly well-paying part-time job. He made enough to pay his room and board and a little extra. But there was no future in it. Trade journals... it sounded interesting.

A voice cut into Sargent�s mediations. �You�re the new man, eh?�

He looked up at a beetle-browed, broad-shouldered man of about forty. �Why, yes,� he said. �My name is Frank Sargent.�

�Hmm. Worked on trade journals before?�

�Why, no. Mr. Chapman didn�t seem to think that experience was necessary.�

�Oh, he didn�t! Well, I�ll tell him a thing or two, filling this office with a bunch of schoolboys hardly dry behind the ears.�

Sargent reddened, but before he could defend himself or make a retort the beetle-browed man went off. A moment later Sargent heard loud voices in Chapman�s office. He couldn�t quite distinguish the words until Chapman�s voice shrilled:

�I still hold fifty-one per cent of the stock, Sligo, and there�s nothing you can do about that.�

Immediately thereafter a door slammed loudly.

�Yippee!� yelled a rich baritone. �I got him. Signed on the dotted line, for six full pages. Old Zuskind himself, the so-and-so! Kiss me, sugar!�

Sargent heard two smacks, the second louder than the first. They were followed by a roar: �She loves me!�

He could almost feel the breeze before the newcomer sailed up to the door of his office and looked in; a short, barrel-chested man of about thirty with hair that was redder than that of Mildred O�Kelly.

�New man, eh? I�m Lew Thayer, the best damn� agate hound in this town. Shake and welcome!�

Sargent took the advertising salesman�s hand and winced as Thayer�s fist crunched his knuckles.

�See you around, pal,� chortled Thayer. �We�ll h�ist one together. Gotta tell Ben about Zuskind. He didn�t think I could land him, the old skinflint.�

Thayer blew off to Chapman�s office and Sargent whistled softly. �What a place! Guess I may as well meet the rest of the... the menagerie.�

He got up and ventured out of his office. He looked into the adjoining one where Robertson was reading a newspaper, then proceeded.

The door of the next office was closed to a crack. As Sargent knocked, he heard a door slammed inside before a hearty voice called, �Come in!�

Sargent pushed open the door. �I�m a new man, so I thought I�d introduce myself.�

�Sure, sure,� said the occupant of the office. �H�arya. I�m Grosvenor Black. You spell it with an �s� but it�s silent... like the �q� in billiards. Ha-ha! Get it?�

Grosvenor Black had spindly legs topped by a torso that should, have belonged to a much bigger man. He was about five feet five. He had a couple of gold teeth in his mouth and enormous pop eyes.

�I�m the new editor of Turkey Talk,� Sargent said.

�Of course. Too bad about Pelkey. Always said he took things too serious.�

�What happened to him?�

�Don�t you know? Had a nervous breakdown. Don�t blame him. Place is a madhouse. D�you mind? I gotta run out and see an advertiser.�

Grosvenor Black caught up a magazine entitled The Slot Machine, rolled it up, and winking at Sargent practically pushed him out of the office.

He hurried down the aisle between the cubicles, whispered something to Mildred O�Kelly and went out.

Sargent returned to his own office, started to enter, then shrugging, stepped back and continued in the direction of Mildred�s desk to the last cubicle.

A handsome curly-haired man in his late twenties held up the palm of his hand. �Don�t tell me,� he said, in a dramatic voice. �You�re the new editor. I have ears to hear. I�ve heard. Your name is Sargent. I, sir, am Andrew Lawrence, editor of � guess what? Creep & Crawl! No less, the one and only magazine dedicated to the cockroach!�

�For Christ�s sake!� gasped Sargent. �Is everybody crazy around here?�

�You doubt my word?� cried Andrew Lawrence. �Look!� He scooped up a trade journal and thrust it at Sargent. Creep & Crawl, the Insecticide Magazine. �Yeah, goes to insecticide eliminators. You don�t talk about them, but they�re here � everywhere! And every town in this country has its insect exterminator. This sheet goes to him. It�s the second most profitable one in the house.�

�What�s the first?�

�The Slot Machine. That carries the whole shebang. Grosvenor Black runs it, in the odd moments he isn�t doping the ponies. Chap who just ran out to place a bet.�

�He said he was calling on an advertiser.�

�Naturally. You, too, will learn. Come the Yanks to play our White Sox or there�s a good bill down at McVickers � you stick a copy of your book in your pocket and call on an advertiser. Which reminds me, I think I�ll go call on an advertiser. See you tomorrow, Sargent.�

Sargent returned to his office and seated himself with the copy of Turkey Talk. He read an article which told about the Billings plan of rotating turkeys in pens. It seemed that turkeys were susceptible to a disease called blackhead, so a professor at the University of Minnesota had evolved this system of raising turkeys which practically eliminated blackhead. You divided a field into four sections, kept the turkeys in one for three months, then moved them to the next, planting the vacated field with alfalfa. You moved the birds every three months, so that in a year they would be back in the original field, by which time the blackhead germs in the ground were dead.

�Interesting,� Sargent summed up the piece. He turned to the. editorial page, started to read and leaned forward as his interest was caught.

The editorial was nothing more nor less than a bitter harangue directed at the publisher of a rival turkey publication, called Turkey Tracks. The editorial practically called the rival a crook and wound up by intimating that the magazine was using a subscription list stolen from Turkey Talk. Business Journals, Incorporated, in fact, was offering substantial rewards to subscribers who could furnish damaging evidence to that effect. What sort of evidence was wanted was not stated, nor was the amount of the sizable reward.

He was still reading when Mildred O�Kelly came to the door of his office. �Look, Frankie,� she said amiably, �Ben wants to see you.�

Sargent closed the copy of Turkey Talk but took it with him as he adjourned to Chapman�s private office. He wondered if he was being fired.

Chapman waved the shears at him. �Close the door, I want to have a talk with you. Sligo�s been squawking. I want to tell you about him because I�ve got to run up to Madison, Wisconsin, for a few days on a little legal matter. I can�t trust anyone around here. They all hate my guts. If anything happens to me, Sligo�s the man the police want. He�s made threats against me and he�s quite capable of carrying them out. I�ve been having him shadowed by a detective agency and they�ve reported that he consorts with gangsters and such ilk. Remember that, Corporal.�

�Sargent!� Sargent said. �But look, Mr. Chapman, I�ve just started to work here. Wouldn�t it be better...?�

�No! You haven�t had time yet to take sides. I�m an excellent judge of character. Before I became a trade journal publisher I was a newspaperman. A damn� good one if I do say so. This was down in Montgomery, Alabama, and I earned fifty dollars a week. People used to point me out on the street. Then I got the Sugar Beet Review and made it the classiest little trade journal in the industry. I was offered thirty thousand dollars for it and refused; then a year later I was glad to take five thousand. Biggest mistake I ever made in my life. Haven�t made any since. If a paper doesn�t pay, I get rid of it. I had Lock & Keys, covering the oldest craft known to man. I had to get rid of it. Just wouldn�t go. That reminds me, you ought to put out a special Colorado issue of Turkey Talk. They raise a lot of turkeys down there. Our White Holland issue was a good one.

�Steer clear of Lew Thayer. He�s a drunkard. I�m thinking of firing him. Here are a bunch of subscription letters that have come in since I fired Pelkey. I�ve taken the money that came with them. Better get the names entered. You go to press tomorrow with the June issue. Get your gallays from Mutter before you leave tonight. I�ve been thinking we ought to make a drive for commission house advertising. No reason why those fellows shouldn�t advertise in Turkey Talk. They�ve got the money and we�ve got the turkeys. Hanson Hill�s a dirty crook, but he stands in with that crowd. That Minnesota turkey pool of his is nothing but a fraud. I�ll send him to jail before I get through.�

�Hanson Hill owns Turkey Tracks, doesn�t he?� Sargent managed to get in edgewise. �I was just reading��

�He used to work for me. Made him a mighty fine proposition and he double-crossed me. Started a competitive sheet. Haley did that on Soap Digest and I made him pretty sick before he quit. Did the same thing to Sligo. Why I ever took that man into this business I don�t know. I�m going to fire him one of these days.�

�Sligo?� Sargent asked.

�Haley. I fired him. Caught him dipping his fingers into the petty cash. Forget what I said about Sligo. Helped me out of a spot one time. Grand fellow, Sligo. Smartest business manager in the trade journal field. Published Candy Columns and made a good thing of it. Have you pasted up your dummy yet for the June issue? You go to press tomorrow. Gums up the whole shop if you throw them off schedule. Get busy. If there�s one thing I don�t like it�s an editor who sits around twiddling his thumbs. Here, enter these subscriptions.�

Sargent took a double handful of envelopes, all of which had been slit open, and fled to his cubicle.

�Godalmighty,� he said, under his breath, �what a man! What a business... Hello!�

During his absence someone had deposited a bundle of galley proofs on his desk. One set was on white paper and another on pink, duplicates of the whites. Sargent looked at them curiously.

�Pasting up a dummy� had a familiar ring. He�d heard the term before, or read about it somewhere and knew vaguely that it had to do with getting a magazine ready for the printer, but exactly what the work entailed was beyond him.

He took the proofs into Jim Robertson�s office. �Look,� he said, �I�m green as grass about this business. What do I do with these?�

�You read the whites and make your corrections on them. The pinks you use to make up your dummy.�

�Yeah, but just what is a dummy?�

�Don�t you know?�

�I was never inside an editorial office in my life before today,� Sargent confessed, grinning ruefully. �And I�m wondering if I�m going to last it out. My head�s been in a whirl ever since I came in here.�

�Ben,� said Robertson. �Look, it�s a quarter to five. Shove all that stuff in a drawer and we�ll call it a day. I�ll give you a few pointers about this racket over a bowl of soup if you�re not in a hurry.�

�Oh, I haven�t got a thing to do. And I�d certainly appreciate anything you can tell me. Frankly, I don�t know whether I�m coming or going and I can�t seem to understand much of what Mr. Chapman tells me... except that he once published a trade paper called Sugar Beet Review.�

Robertson chuckled. �You�ll get sick of that Sugar Beet Review. Come on, let�s go!�

As they walked down the center aisle toward the door, Sligo came out of his office and made a show of looking at his watch, to indicate that he knew they were beating the gun by a few minutes.

Outside the building Robertson said to Sargent, �I didn�t know Ben had an ad in the paper this week. When did he interview you?�

�Just a little while ago, when I came up to the office.�

�The first time? Funny no one else answered the ad.�

�I didn�t answer an ad.�

�Then how�d you happen to get the job?�

Sargent laughed. �I came up to interview Chapman. You see, I work for the Trotter Institute of Public Opinion. The Trotter Poll, you know. I didn�t know Chapman from Adam. I started to ask him the usual stuff and he went into a monologue and wound up by hiring me. It�s the craziest thing ever happened in all my life.�

Robertson nodded. �Stick around awhile.�

�You don�t seem surprised. Does Chapman always hire his help that way?�

�No, he usually runs ads in the Sunday Tribune. You�ll find out about that later. Where do you live?�

�In a hotel on North Avenue, near Halsted.�

�That�s not so far from where I hang out. I�ve got a hole on Dearborn, near Division. This joint look all right to eat?�

�Fine.�

They entered a cafe and seated themselves in a booth. �I don�t know about you,� Robertson said, �but I always have a drink the first thing after I leave the office.�

�That�s okay by me. I�ll have a Martini.�

When the waiter brought drinks Robertson downed his in two gulps and promptly ordered another. Sargent contented himself with taking a sip of his Martini.

�Are all publishing offices as, uh, hectic as Business Journals?�

Robertson lit a cigarette and studied Sargent cautiously for a moment. �I just remembered I�ve got a date later on. Now, just what can I tell you about the details of making up a magazine?�

�The dummy. I don�t know a thing about pasting it up.�

�Simple. Your copy�s already been set up in type. Pelkey took care of that before he was � before he left. So you just trim the margins from your pink galleys and past up the magazine the way you�d like to have it. First your ads, of course, although there aren�t many on Turkey Talk. Then your reading matter. Use an old copy as a model. First, though, you ought to read the white galleys so that the shop can make any corrections that are necessary.�

�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.�

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!�

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.�

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.

They found a small table and the man with the derby seated himself at the counter.

�It�s okay,� Robertson said, �but the lieutenant-copper put a shadow on us. Just in case. Well, what do you think?�

�About Sligo?�

�Everything. Ben O. Chapman, Sligo, the publishing business.�

Sargent smiled wryly. �Things happen, don�t they?�

�Don�t they! Ben tell you anything about Sligo yesterday?�

�Would he be likely to tell a new man?� Sargent asked cautiously.

�Ben would stop a stranger on the street and tell him his life history. He�s told me about the Sugar Beet Review a thousand times. Sligo, too. Ben hated his guts.�

�They didn�t see eye to eye on the business, I suppose?�

�Or anything. Ernie Pelkey told me...� Robertson frowned and broke off, then sighed wearily. �Look, Sargent, I think you�re okay. But if I spill my nut and you blab to Chapman my goose is cooked. And I�ve been trying to save up enough money to get married.�

�Mildred?�

Robertson colored. �Mildred�s a good kid, but it isn�t her. Well?�

�All right,� said Sargent, �I�ll come clean. My coming up to the office yesterday wasn�t exactly an accident. But I�d met Ernest Pelkey��

�Where?�

�At his home in River Forest. Oh, I went there by accident. Mrs. Pelkey answered the door and tried to shoosh me away quietly and then Pelkey came out. I never saw a man in such a state of nerves.�

�Ernie blew his top. Do you know why?�

�It had something to do with Chapman, didn�t it?�

Robertson screwed up his mouth. �What did you think of Mrs. Pelkey?�

It was Sargent�s turn to redden. �She bowled me over. And when I saw Pelkey and he began to froth at the mouth I wondered, well, I wanted to see what sort of man could have turned him into that.�

�Pelkey mentioned Chapman?�

�Yes. I happened to ask him his vocation and he began to curse Chapman up and down.�

�I saw Ernie two days ago. He�s in a bad way. I told you � didn�t I?�� that Ernie worked for Chapman two years. Longer than anyone ever worked for him. They come and go at Chapman�s?�

�That bad?�

Robertson grinned crookedly. �Oh, you might last a long time. Sligo was a troublemaker. With him out of the way... mmm, maybe we�d better not talk about that.�

�Because it was Chapman�s scissors that were found stuck in Sligo?�

�That little fellow who came in just before the cops � he�s a private detective, you know. Works for the Decker Agency. Fanning gave him the once-over in Chapman�s office. The panels are kinda thin and my office is right next door, you know. It seems Chapman had hired this Wilting � that�s the detective � to shadow Sligo. Chapman claimed that Sligo had hired someone to kill him. What do you think of that?�

Sargent whistled. �He hinted at that to me. Why, I don�t know. But he said if anything happened to him Sligo was the man to tell the police about.�

�So if Ben Chapman had been killed, Sligo would have been the murderer. But it�s Sligo who�s been killed.�

�Meaning?�

�I�m not a policeman. I�m a trade paper editor.�

�So am I � for the nonce.� Sargent frowned. �Do you suppose the business will fold up now?�

�Hardly. Ben O. is Business Journals, Incorporated. Sligo was excess baggage. He wasn�t even a brake on Ben. Complained about everything, yes, but Ben just went ahead and did what he wanted.�

�Which brings you down to the question I�ve wanted to ask you ever since yesterday. Barring yourself... is everyone at the office insane?�

Robertson laughed so suddenly that particles of food flew from his mouth. �It is the wackiest crowd you ever saw, isn�t it? Beginning at the bottom, with Mildred O�Kelly; if ever there was a rattlebrained stenographer it�s Mildred. She even misspells one-syllable words. And Andy Lawrence with his dramatics! He played in a summer theater once and never got over it. Grosvenor, well, how would you describe him?�

�A race-track tout.�

�Perfect. But the lad�s the smartest editor of the lot. He can write like nobody�s business and he�s a corking salesman when he wants to be. Well, we�ll skip me and carry on to Ben O. Chapman. He�s the king screwball. You must know that by now. At the same time, don�t underestimate him. Ben O. knows the trade paper field. He knows every publishing trick and invents new ones himself almost every day. Sligo...�

�Ah, yes, Sligo,� said Sargent. �In what way was he wacky?�

�He wasn�t. He was the misfit of the office. He was sour and sarcastic and downright mean at times, but there wasn�t anything screwy about him. He�d put money into the business and he was trying to protect it � to the best of his ability.�

�You�ve overlooked one member of the staff,� said Sargent. �Lew Thayer.�

Robertson whistled softly. �So I did! And that reminds me, he didn�t show up today. Thayer is a wild Irishman. When he�s got a few drinks under his belt...!�

Sargent nodded. �And now what about Ernie Pelkey? You said he blew his top. How did you mean that?�

�Literally. Ernie�s had a complete nervous breakdown and ought to be in a sanitarium right now. Only Hester wouldn�t have him committed.�

They had finished their meal by now and the waiter brought their checks. Robertson picked up his own and left a nickel tip. Sargent followed his example.

They paid their checks at the door and started back to the Dockery Building. Their shadow was fifty feet behind them.

When they entered the office, Lieutenant Fanning crooked a finger at Sargent and led the way into the latter�s office.

�I�ve been correlating a few bits of information, Sargent,� the lieutenant said. �I understand you were the first one down at the office this morning.�

�That�s right, but since I had no key I waited outside until someone came along.�

�Who was that?�

Sargent hesitated a moment and the lieutenant made an impatient gesture. �It was Miss O�Kelly who told me you were the first one here. I�m merely trying to corroborate her testimony. She came along with Robertson.�

�That�s right.�

�And which one had the key?�

�Miss O�Kelly, I believe.�

�Check. Now, think carefully. Did you try the door when you. first arrived?�

�Of course. I wouldn�t have known it was locked if I hadn�t.�

�You might merely have assumed it was locked. By the way, the elevator operator reports that he brought you up a half hour before the others. What did you do during that time?�

�Nothing, I tried the door and when I discovered it was locked, I waited in the hall.�

Lieutenant Fanning looked steadily at Sargent. �The janitor has checked with the cleaning woman and she insists that the office was empty last night when she cleaned it between six and seven.�

�What does that prove?�

�Nothing. Nothing at all. Sligo could have come here afterwards although the night operator has no record of it. The man admits, however, that anyone could come in while he was on an upper floor and climb the stairs. Sligo was dead approximately fifteen hours, the medical examiner tells me. That means he was killed last night.�

�That would make it around seven o�clock last night. At that time I was in the public library... if that�s what you�re getting at.�

�Well, I was kinda. What were you doing at the library?�

�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.�

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:

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.

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:

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?�

�I�ve already got the order drawn up,� said Mr. Koppis, a swarthy little man with a Jerry Colonna mustache. �All I got to do is take it down to Judge Witnouer for him to sign.�

�It�s none of my business, Mr. Chapman,� said Lieutenant Fanning, �but they�re right; they can do it. Why don�t you let them go over the books? After all, you�ve nothing to fear... have you?�

�No, no, of course not,� Ben Chapman said hastily. �It�s just that I don�t like the idea; the widow of my poor, dear friend mistrusting... ah, very well, go ahead!�

He turned and slammed back to his office. Fanning, catching the eye of Sargent standing carelessly in the door of his own office, winked and came over.

�What�s this girl stampede you had here this morning?� he asked Sargent. �I can�t seem to get the straight of it.�

�Mr. Chapman didn�t confide in me,� Sargent replied. �But it seems he advertised for a good-looking blonde.�

�Did he hire one?�

�I believe so.�

�Where is she? I just got in.�

�I don�t know, lieutenant. Have you asked Chapman?�

�He�s not in the mood. Well, how do you like your new job so far?�

�Fine. And you?�

�Everything�s under control.�

�I suppose you expect to make an arrest at any moment?�

�Uh-huh. I talked to a couple of former employees of Chapman�s this morning. Hanson Hill, who quit here and started a magazine of his own. Know him?�

�Only by name.�

�That�s right, you wouldn�t. He worked here a couple of years ago. Mmm, I also talked to Hill�s successor � your predecessor; fellow named Pelkey. Poor chap�s in a bad way; seems to be suffering from a bad case of nerves. Ever meet Pelkey?�

�Of course I did,� snapped Sargent. �You�re trying to lead me into a trap.�

Fanning grinned ruefully. �You told me yesterday you came to see Ben Chapman by accident. Picked his name out of a phone book, or something.�

�Or something! As a matter of fact, I happened to call on Pelkey on behalf of the Trotter Poll. I was imbued with a morbid curiosity to see the man who could do to another what had apparently been done to Pelkey, so, since I had to interview a businessman anyway, I thought...�

�Sure, I understand.� Fanning�s voice was agreeable and soothing. �So it was practically accidentally that you came here. Just like it was practically accidental that you called on Pelkey.�

�Eh? That was an accident. I never saw or heard of Ernest Pelkey before I rang the door of his home.�

�By the way, who answered? Pelkey or his pretty wife?�

�His wife. Why?�

�No reason. Just curious. Like you. She�s a looker, isn�t she?�

�I see a lot of good-looking women in my work,� Sargent retorted.

�Bet you do. Ha-ha. Even here, eh?� Fanning winked and stepped out of Sargent�s office.

Sargent sat for a few moments, frowning at a stack of mail someone had placed on his desk during his absence.

The mail was still in the original envelopes, but each had been slit open. On some of the envelopes were penciled notations, �$1 cash� or �$1 ck,� These were subscription orders. All mail at Business Journals, Incorporated, it seemed, went through Ben Chapman�s hands first and he extracted the remittances.

Sargent got up with the intention of asking Jim Robertson how to enter subscriptions, but saw Fanning in The Skating Rink editor�s office, so stepped across the hall to the office of Andrew Lawrence.

Lawrence took him to the safe, near Mildred O�Kelly�s desk, and rummaging about in it produced a ledger on which was stamped in gold letters: The Billiard Parlor.

�This is your book on Turkey Talk. There�re a few pages missing from the front, that used to be for The Billiard Parlor, one of Ben�s flops. He started the magazine, then found out owners of pool rooms couldn�t read... Now, here�s what you do; you write down the name of the person or firm who sent the money, here, for what purpose and, here, the amount. Your subscriptions you type out on a sheet of paper and give once a month to Mutter in the shop who will set up the names in type. This is bookkeeping in its simplest form, which is the only kind we use around here.�

Sargent carried the ledger to his office and began making his entries.

He entered but three subscription when Ben O. Chapman�s voice called: �Sargent, come in here, please!�

Sargent went to Chapman�s private office, wondering as he did every time he was summoned, if he was being fired.

Chapman was hunched down in his swivel chair, toying with an 18-inch pica ruler. �I�ve been watching you, Sargent. You�re doing good work and one of these days you may become as good an editor as Grosvenor Black. I�m a good judge of character. Even my enemies concede that. I remember when I had the Sugar Beet Review, I hired a young fellow like you. He was smart as a whip. He had only one fault; he couldn�t keep his fingers out of the petty cash, so I had to fire him.�

Sargent flushed. �If you�re intimating that I would touch the petty cash...�

�No, no, as it turned out it wasn�t Morgan Burr who took the money. It was my private secretary. Bought silk stockings and stuff with it. I�m going to raise your salary, Sargent.�

Sargent inhaled sharply, �Why... thanks!�

�Not now, though,� Chapman continued. �In a little while. Remind me of it in a few weeks. I want you to do a little special work for me. You�re new here. All the others stick together and I can�t trust them. I want you to do a little investigating for me. Talk to the fellows. Ask them what they thought about Sligo... and me, too.�

�You mean,� said Sargent bluntly, �you want me to be the office spy and stool pigeon?�

�No, no, not at all. Wouldn�t think of such a thing. It�s just that I sense an undercurrent around here. Things going on. Sligo�s death has upset me. I�m throwing a little party tonight at my apartment. Come up about eight. Bring your wife if you wish.�

�I�m not married.�

�Oh, no? I thought you were. Must be someone else. No matter. Come about eight-thirty. Harcross Apartments on Clark, near Fullerton.�

Sargent returned to his office and endeavored to resume his work, but Chapman�s proposition had upset him. He wasn�t going to act as a spy, of course, but nevertheless the puzzle, as presented by the murder of Sligo and stimulated by Chapman�s words, bothered him.

He drew up a sheet of paper and wrote on it:

After a moment, Sargent added his own name, just to see how the list would look to an outsider, as, for example, Lieutenant Fanning.

Yet if he went as far as putting down his own name he had to go much farther. He had to write down the names of former employees of Business Journals, Incorporated, like Ernest Pelkey and Hanson Hill, the publisher of the competitive Turkey Tracks. And Haley, who had left the firm and started Soap Digest, on which he had gone broke. And other nameless ex-editors who had come and gone in the years.

The more Sargent thought of it, the more convinced he became he was on the wrong track. Ben O. Chapman was Business Journals, Incorporated. The names he had written down would have been more suspect if Chapman had been the victim. Or had Sligo been as bad as Chapman? Or had the murderer made a mistake and killed the wrong man?

But why had Ben O. Chapman employed a private detective to shadow Sligo? And what had Wilting, the private detective, been on the verge of imparting to Chapman, just a moment before the city police came into the office?

Angrily Sargent tore up the sheet of paper and threw the scraps into his ample wastebasket. He was working here as an editor, not as a detective. He owed Chapman nothing.

Sargent had had just about enough for one day. He picked up a copy of Turkey Talk, rolled it up and stuck it in his pocket. Then he stepped out of his office, preparatory to �calling on an advertiser.�

But he didn�t just then, for someone was passing Mildred O�Kelly�s office desk and coming toward him. He knew who it was instantly, Chapman�s new employee, although when Chapman had interviewed her there had been so many blondes present that they had all looked alike to Sargent. Now he wondered why he hadn�t been able to spot this one, for certainly she stood out from all the other blondes the way a sunflower stands out in a field of daisies.

She was tall, at least five feet nine. She was slender yet filled out in the right places. Her complexion was better than any schoolgirl�s, for she had improved on nature with a wonderful blend of creams, powder and rouge � and mascara and false eyelashes. She was blond, oh, gorgeously blond and she wore a tailored suit with a sweater that would most certainly have been banned by the Will Hays office.

She smiled at Frank Sargent and he became so rattled that he bumped the door of Jim Robertson�s office.

�I�ll bet you�re one of the editors,� she said in a voice that tinkled.

�Yeah, sure,� Sargent mumbled. �Turkey Talk.�

�Oh, Turkey Talk. Then this is a pleasure. I�m your new advertising representative. Why, you�re my boss!�

�Huh?� said Sargent.

�But of course! Mr. Chapman said we would work closely together. I think that�s marvelous, don�t you?�

�Yeah, sure, it certainly is. Uh, sure!�

�Miss Prescott!� exclaimed Ben O. Chapman, stepping out of his office. �What luck?�

�Oh, marvelous, Mr. Chapman! Simply marvelous. I called on Mr. Eli Crombie of Crombie & Company, and you know what the dear boy did? He invited me to have dinner with him. Isn�t that marvelous? A prospective advertiser taking me to dinner. Oh, I�m so excited, I just couldn�t make another call today. But tomorrow...�

Sargent reeled out of the office.

The Harcross Apartments turned out to be a four-story, somewhat grimy walkup on Clark Street. From the mailbox tags Sargent learned that Ben O. Chapman�s apartment was on the third floor. He had no difficulty finding it once he reached the third floor; the din could come only from Chapman�s party. He rang the doorbell and waited for a full minute, then rang again. Still receiving no answer, he opened the door and became a member of the party.

The main part of it was in Chapman�s living room, lit up ridiculously with low-watt electric light bulbs concealed in paper Japanese lanterns.

Sargent would have guessed from the noise that there were at least fifty people at the party, but actually there were only a dozen or so. It was a loud dozen, however.

Two or three men and that many girls were crowded around a player piano singing �Margie.� Near by a man and a girl were somehow seated on a single armchair, necking.

Ben O. Chapman, himself, was sitting cross-legged on the floor, haranguing three or four guests who were crowded around him in various postures.

He was saying loudly, �There I was, one of the biggest men in the city, making fifty dollars a week. That may not sound like much to you, but you must remember that this was twenty years ago in a small town. People used to point me out on the street... Hello, Sargent, get yourself some ginger ale in the kitchen. I told you to bring a bottle of liquor, didn�t I?... So then I got wind of the Sugar Beet Review, a run-down magazine that no one thought much of. I took it over and made it the best trade journal in the country and...�

Sargent found the kitchen and in it Miss Prescott, the new advertising representative of Turkey Talk wrestling with an uncouth, bald-headed man, who was drooling at the mouth. Miss Prescott was holding her own, but she seemed glad to see Sargent.

�Why, Frankie!� she cried. �I had no idea you were coming here. I�m so glad. I want you to meet Eli Crombie, a very dear friend. Mr. Crombie is president of Eli Crombie & Company.�

Mr. Crombie glowered at Sargent, because he had interrupted the wrestling match, but stuck out a fat hand. �H�arya, Frankie... Any friend of Eileen�s is a friend of mine.�

�Hello, Eli,� Sargent said shortly. �Ben told me I�d find a drink out here.�

�Sure, help yourself,� said Eli Crombie generously. �I brung a couple of quarts of rye. Help yourself.�

Sargent found a bottle that someone besides Crombie and Eileen had been helping themselves from and poured out about an inch into a glass. While he was searching for ginger ale or soda Eileen Prescott came up behind him and draped an arm about his neck.

�Make me a drink, too, Frankie. Now, don�t be jealous of Frankie, Eli. He�s really my boss and I�ve got to be nice to him. Don�t I, Frankie?�

�Sure,� said Sargent, �but be nice to Eli, too.�

�Oh, I are, aren�t I, Eli?�

�Sure, babe, but whaddya say we go somewhere where it ain�t so crowded? This party�s kinda dull anyway.�

Another party guest kicked open the kitchen door. �Ben says to come out, he�s going to put on a show.�

In the living room the player piano was silent and the guests were all squatted on the floor, facing the front of the room.

Ben Chapman, wearing a black Hallowe�en mask, popped out of a bedroom door. He was whirling a deadly-looking Malay kris over his head.

All the girls squealed.

�Yi-yi-yi!� yipped Ben O. Chapman, the president of Business Journals, Incorporated. �Scared you, didn�t I? I picked this up in a little shop down in New Orleans when I was publishing the Sugar Beet Review. A Dutch sailor brought it there, the man told me. Claimed it came direct from Borneo. Now, wait a minute and I�ll really show you something.� Chapman ducked back into the bedroom.

�Is he nuts?� asked Eli Crombie, breathing heavily down Sargent�s neck.

�No,� said Sargent. �Not nuts, just a little squirrelly.�

Ben Chapman�s voice came from the bedroom. �Pull yourselves together, now; don�t be afraid of this one.�

He came out still wearing the Hallowe�en mask, but waving a five-foot curved saber. �This is the Scimitar of Hassan,� he declaimed. �Hassan Ibn Sabah, the Old Man of the Mountain, who formed the Order of Assassins in the twelfth century��

�Jeez!� cried a voice in the rear of the room. �I�m cockeyed drunk!�

Sargent, whirling, saw redheaded Lew Thayer in the open doorway. Thayer�s hair was disheveled, his face had a three days� growth of red beard, and his clothes were soiled and creased.

� �Scuse me, folks,� Thayer said, bowing drunkenly. �I musta got the wrong door. Maybe the wrong building.�

�Shut the door, Thayer!� snapped Ben O. Chapman through his false face.

Thayer�s head came up like that of a colored man walking through a cemetery at midnight and having a skeleton pop up in front of him.

�Who�s that talkin� to me?� he yelled. �Ya wanna make something of it? Put up your dukes! I ain�t �fraida no one, not even with your cheese-knife.�

�You�re drunk, Thayer,� said Ben O. Chapman.

�Who�s drunk?� Lew Thayer asked belligerently. �Callin� me drunk, you homely, monkey-faced hyena. Come on!�

Thayer assumed a fighting stance, fists raised. Frank Sargent got in his way. �Easy, Lew,� he said, �it�s Ben Chapman, the boss. This is his place.�

Thayer struck down Sargent�s hand. �Who�re you? I don�t remember your face, but your voice is familiar. Who you pushin� around, huh? I don�t take pushin� around from nobody. Nobody, understand?�

Chapman came forward. �Thayer, you drunken sot, I�ve taken enough from you. You�re fired, understand? You�re fired. Now, go home and��

Smack!

That was Lew Thayer�s fist landing in the middle of the Hallowe�en mask. Ben O. Chapman sat down violently on the floor and a couple of the girls screamed.

Sargent stepped behind Thayer and locked him in a bear hug. �Cut it out, Lew. That was Chapman you hit.�

�Chapman, where�s Chapman?� cried Thayer.

Ben O. was picking himself up from the floor. He had stripped the mask from his face and was holding his nose with a hand. It was bleeding profusely.

�That was a dirty trick, Thayer, hitting me when I wasn�t looking,� he whined.

�Holey gee! I didn�t hit you, Benny. Honest, I didn�t. I hit a coon who was wavin� a knife at me. Hell, Benny, you�re my pal, ain�t you?�

�Oh, Mr. Chapman,� cried Miss Prescott, �you�re bleeding!� She sprang to Chapman, whisked the handkerchief from his breast pocket and began dabbing it at his face. Another girl advanced on Chapman and between them they led him off to the bathroom.

Sargent released Thayer. The latter recognized Sargent then. �Say, you�re the new man at the office. How�s things?�

�Fine. And you?�

�Oh, swell. I landed Zuskind this afternoon and Ben�s going to give me a ten-dollar bonus.�

�You landed Zuskind this afternoon?�

�Yeah, sure, you know Zuskind, the penny scale man? He�s taking a full page a month, for six months, in The Slot Machine.�

�Wait a minute,� said Sargent. �You landed Zuskind on Tuesday, my first day with Business Journals. This is Thursday evening. Did you know that?�

�You�re kiddin�! Hell, I only stopped in for a drink on my way home. Celebrate, you know. Zuskind was a tough egg to land. And then the bonus Ben promised me...�

�You�ve been drunk for two days,� Sargent said bluntly. �Did you know...?� He gripped the advertising salesman�s arm and led him forcibly to a corner. �Do you know what�s happened at the office in the last couple of days?�

�Yeah, sure. He hired you to take Ernie Pelkey�s place. No hard feelings, fella, but Ernie Pelkey and me was like that.� He held up two fingers pressed together.

�Sligo�s been murdered,� Sargent said into Thayer�s ear.

Thayer cried out in consternation, �You�re kiddin�!�

�I�m not. He was found dead in his office yesterday morning, with a pair of shears piercing his heart. The police...�

�The police, gee! They been around the office?� The full import of Sargent�s information suddenly hit Thayer and he reeled. �Dan Sligo murdered. Holy Moses Mackerel! Sligo! I always thought it would be Ben Chapman�� He suddenly clapped his hand to his mouth. �Jeez, I didn�t say nothing! Holy Moses Mackerel! Sligo murdered � and me dead drunk and not knowing about it. Holy��

�Moses Mackerel!� Sargent finished for him. �Here comes Chapman.�

Chapman rejoined the party, flanked by the two girls who had given him nursing treatment. The bleeding had been stopped but Chapman looked oddly pale.

�Let�s go on with the party, folks,� he said.

�Sure,� said Eli Crombie. �Put on your false face again and show us some more daggers. Maybe you�ve got an Australian whiffle-doofle, huh?�

Light suddenly pierced the fog in Lew Thayer�s head. �False face, hey! That�s what Ben was wearing, huh? Holy Moses Mackerel, and I didn�t know it. What the hell, Ben, I shoulda known. I�ve seen your act so damn� many times. Ha-ha-ha!�

�You have a funny sense of humor, Thayer,� said Chapman coldly. �Sargent, I want to have a word with you.�

Sargent followed his employer into the kitchen, where Chapman faced him and asked eagerly, �Did you talk to the boys like I asked you, Sargent?�

�No,� Sargent replied briefly.

�But you�ve got to � and quick! My life is in danger, Sargent. Somebody wants to kill me.�

�Who?�

�I don�t know. If I did I wouldn�t be worrying. I�d have it out with the fellow one way or the other. But they all hate me: Robertson, Lawrence and Black. And you saw what Thayer did to me just a few minutes ago.�

�Thayer�s drunk. The false face and the sword scared him.�

�They did like hell. He�s seen them before. He hit me as a warning.�

�As a warning of what?�

�Just a warning. Maybe it�s Thayer.�

�What has Thayer got against you?�

�Nothing. Not a thing in the world. I�ve been the best employer he ever had. You know what he�s like, a drunken bum. No other publisher in the business would keep him one week.�

�Why do you?�

�Because he�s the best advertising salesman in the business, when he behaves himself. Why, Lew Thayer could sell advertising to another published. Last winter I sent him on a week�s trip to Ohio and he came back with signed advertising contracts totaling eight thousand dollars. He earned twelve hundred dollars for himself in those four weeks. Clear, because I paid his expenses. Then he went on a bat and I didn�t see him for three weeks.�

�But what has he got against you?�

Ben O. Chapman squirmed. �Nothing actually. I�m holding it out for his own good and he knows it. He�d spend it on whisky if I gave it to him.�

�His salary?�

�His commissions on that Ohio trip. I knew if I gave him the money he�d gamble it away or drink it up. So I�ve been saving it for him. He claims I�m trying to cheat him out of it, but he knows better than that.�

�Oh,� said Sargent. �And what has Grosvenor Black got against you?�

�Not a thing.�

�Do you owe him money?�

�Don�t be absurd, Sargent. Why should I owe Black money?�

�No reason, I was just asking. You said they were all down on you and I was trying to determine what motives they had for hating you.�

�They haven�t got any. They�re ingrates. Not one of them I didn�t practically pick up out of the gutter. You take Black; he was down and out when I hired him, absolutely down and out. He came in wearing a green suit that was out at the elbows. There was straw sticking on it and he�d evidently slept in a horse car. He didn�t have a nickel in his pocket and he was hungry. I gave him a job and put him on his feet. Why should he hate me?�

�I don�t know. And Jim Robertson?�

�A supercilious ingrate if ever there was one. I took him from a newspaper where there was no future and gave him an opportunity to learn an excellent profession and amount to something. And all the time he�s sneering behind my back. And Lawrence, did you see that article he published in Creep & Crawl a couple of issues ago?�

�No, I haven�t read any magazine other than Turkey Talk.�

�Read it then. It�s a disgraceful piece. Made me the laughingstock of the industry. The Manhattan reprinted extracts from it. �The Love Life of a Cockroach,� he called it. Creep & Crawl is a business journal, catering to a legitimate business.�

�And what about Ernest Pelkey?�

Ben O. Chapman gave Sargent a sharp glance. �What do you know about Ernest Pelkey?�

�Not a thing. You mentioned his name to me.�

�No, I didn�t. I wouldn�t ever mention Pelkey�s name to anyone. The dirty thief!�

�What did he steal, petty cash?�

�No, that was Haley, or maybe Hanson Hill. Pelkey was worse than either of them. A man I called my friend, my only friend. And then to do to me what he did.�

�What was that?�

�That doesn�t concern you, Sargent. For a brand-new employee you�re altogether too inquisitive.�

�I�m sorry,� Sargent retorted. �But you insisted on giving me your confidence.�

�Don�t be ridiculous. How do I know you won�t side with the others? You probably will. Editors always stick together against their publishers and employers. You�d think they�d know which side their bread is buttered, but no��

�Excuse me,� said a voice at the door to the living room, �am I interrupting something?�

Lieutenant Fanning smiled pleasantly. Ben O. Chapman�s face darkened in anger. �What right have you to invade the privacy of my home, officer?� he demanded.

�The people downstairs are complaining about the noise up here.� Lieutenant Fanning grinned.

�They telephoned the Police Department? And you came. I thought you were a Homicide detective?�

�I am. The folks downstairs didn�t telephone the station. Matter of fact I was coming in and they grabbed me on the stairs and complained about the racket.�

�How�d they know you were a policeman?�

Lieutenant Fanning scratched his head, while his eyes twinkled. �Darned if I know. You suppose I should go back and ask them?�

Chapman regarded the detective coldly. �I suppose you have some information regarding the Sligo matter?�

�Not exactly. Only we got a rather strange call at Headquarters. About a fellow disappearing. His name is Pelkey. Ernest Pel��

�Ohmigawd!� groaned Chapman, clapping both hands to his head. �Where is he?�

�Pelkey? I don�t know. That�s what I was telling you. He disappeared. His wife is rather worried about him, because it seems Pelkey has been ill.�

�He�s crazy! And he�ll kill me. He threatened to do it and he will. Lieutenant, you�ve got to find Pelkey and put him under lock and key. I tell you the man is dangerous. He�s a homicidal maniac!�

Fanning stared at Chapman in astonishment; whether pretended or real, Sargent could not determine. �But his wife said he was suffering merely from a slight nervous disorder.�

�That�s what she calls it. Pelkey is a victim of dementia praecox. He�s stark, raving mad and he�ll kill me.�

�Why should he have such a down on you, Mr. Chapman?�

�I don�t know. He worked for me two years. Naturally, when he became a victim of this disease I couldn�t keep him on at the office, so he blames me... Yes, that�s it. He�s down on me because I had to let him go.�

�What were his relations with Daniel Sligo?�

�Bad,� said Chapman, �very bad. Nobody liked Sligo.�

�For instance?� prodded Lieutenant Fanning.

�The employees, all of them.�

�Mmm, and how did you get along with Sligo?�

�Excellent. Two more amicable partners you never saw in a business.�

�I didn�t gather that from what Mrs. Sligo said this afternoon.�

�Mrs. Sligo! She�s distraught, naturally. Daniel�s untimely end is a great shock to her, no doubt. And a financial loss, too � unless Daniel had heavy insurance, which I doubt.�

�Why a financial loss, if Sligo owned half the business?�

�Forty-nine per cent, but unfortunately, Business Journals hasn�t paid any dividends in some years. Sligo was dependent upon his salary.�

�But what about his stock? Couldn�t Mrs. Sligo sell it?�

�Oh, yes, although she may find it a little difficult to sell stock in a trade publishing company. Not a great many people would be interested in buying it, I imagine.�

�I see. Well, look, Mr. Chapman, I don�t want to spoil your party here. There�s just one thing more I�d like to ask you this evening. That�s regarding the missing advertising salesman. Have you any idea where I might locate him?�

Frank Sargent tried to catch Chapman�s eye, but it was too much to expect that Chapman would defend one of his employees... or anyone.

�He�s here!� Chapman cried. �He�s the wild Irishman in the next room. Give him a good grilling, will you?�

Lieutenant Fanning�s face tightened. �I will. Some interesting questions I want to ask him. Excuse me!�

He stepped out of the kitchen. Sargent turned an accusing look at his employer, but before he could say a word Eileen Prescott burst in, waving a slip of paper.

�Oh, Mr. Chapman!� she cried. �Look what I�ve got. Mr. Crombie, the darling, gave it to me. A six months� advertising contract, for a page of space every month. Isn�t that marvelous?�

Ben O. Chapman scowled. �Why, the chiseler! It should have been a twelve months� contract.�

Miss Prescott was taken aback and Sargent thought for a moment that she would break into tears. �Oh, you�re disappointed in Eileen!� she said, pouting. �And I thought I was doing simply marvelous. I was just thinking a hundred and forty dollars for one evening�s work...�

�It could have been two hundred and eighty dollars just as well.�

And now Eileen did shed tears. Sargent slipped quietly out of the kitchen and rejoined the party in the living room. He looked for Eli Crombie and found him sitting in an easy chair, looking despondent.

Lieutenant Fanning and Lew Thayer were in a corner of the room. Lieutenant Fanning�s big body was blocking Thayer�s small, chunky one, but Thayer was giving the detective plenty of trouble if his booming profanity meant anything.

Sargent eased over to Eli Crombie. �Don�t take it so hard, Eli, old man.�

�What?�

�Advertising in Turkey Talk. You might get some business out of it.�

�Yah!� Mr. Crombie rubbed his bald head vigorously. �I ain�t sore. A few pages of advertising don�t mean nothin� to me. I can spend a few dollars to see my name in print. It ain�t that. I just don�t understand this head. I take her to dinner at Harding�s on Wabash, then I bring her here, so I figure natcherly I�ll take her home. I�m a gentleman, I am. So what does she spring on me?�

�Her husband�s calling for her?�

�Huh! She got a husband?�

�Not that I know of. I was just wondering.�

�Naw, she says Ben O. Chapman won�t let strange men take her home. Says he�ll fire her if I take her away from here. What the hell! Who does this Chapman think he is, her guardeen or something?�

Sargent�s respect for Eileen Prescott came out of the cellar and climbed part way up the stairs. He said:

�After all, she�s pretty young.�

�She�s over eighteen. If you ask me, she�s over twenty-one, some years. You know what I think?�

�No.�

Across the room, Lew Thayer roared, �Who you callin� a liar, you thick-headed flatfoot? Put up your dukes and I�ll chop you down to my size, you...�

Lieutenant Fanning tried to pin down Thayer�s arms, but the wiry redhead started wrestling with him. Ben O. Chapman came out of the kitchen with Eileen Prescott and both rushed over to the scene of the struggle. The other guests converged likewise and the hostilities were somewhat quieted down, deteriorating to loud talk rather than physical combat.

While the commotion was going on, Sargent, got his hat and slipped out. He�d had enough party for one evening. He�d made up his mind about one thing, though; there would never be a dull moment where Ben O. Chapman was.

He walked on Clark to Halsted and caught a southbound streetcar, which deposited him in a few minutes on North Avenue, just a block from the Ajax Hotel.

The Ajax was a fourth-rate rooming house, consisting of two floors over a restaurant. Sargent climbed a long flight of stairs to the second floor and started down a narrow, dimly lit corridor to his room, the last one of the left-hand side.

His door, oddly, was unlocked, which annoyed Sargent. It wasn�t safe to leave your door unlocked at the Ajax if you had anything of value. He pushed open the door and flicked the light switch just inside. Then he stepped in.

Ernest Pelkey got up from the bed.

�You�re Frank Sargent,� he said.

A shudder ran through Sargent. He kept his hand on the doorknob and could scarcely restrain an impulse to leap backward and take to his heels.

He said, �That�s right. How�d you get into my room?�

�With a skeleton key. I used to know a locksmith. I�m Ernest Pelkey. You remember me, don�t you?�

Sargent nodded.

�Close the door,� Pelkey continued. �I want to have a talk with you.�

�Wouldn�t tomorrow do just as well? I�ve had a hard day��

�At the office. On my job. That�s what I want to talk to you about. And I don�t think it�ll wait until tomorrow.�

Looking at Ernest Pelkey now, anyone would take him for a person of normal mind. He was relaxed, even smiling a little. Sargent let the door swing shut and took two steps to the cane rocking chair, the only furniture in the tiny room, aside from the bed and a chest of drawers.

�Shoot!�

�You�re the Trotter Poll man. I never forget a face. You pumped my wife and heard I�d lost my job, so you hustled right down and applied for the job. Pretty clever of you, Sargent.�

�Maybe so, Pelkey, but you just made two wrong statements. I didn�t pump your wife. I didn�t get to ask her anything, before you came to the door. I didn�t even learn your name from her. You came out with the name of Business Journals, Incorporated. Someone up the street gave me your name.�

�But you did apply for my job?�

�No. I called on Chapman mostly through idle curiosity. I have been and still am � during spare time � a Trotter field man. If you know anything of the Trotter Poll you know that we try to get a cross section of public opinion. So we quiz so many people of the laboring classes, so many wealthy. Similarly, we get a cross section of business and professional people. To save time that would have gone into investigating another businessman I called on Chapman. He started talking and before I knew what he was even talking about he had hired me. You know Ben O. Chapman, if anyone does.�

Ernest Pelkey�s eyes began to glow. �Yes, I know Chapman, the dirty swine. I worked for him for two years. They were two years of hell. You couldn�t possibly guess what kind of dog he is. He�s the lowest creature that ever walked this earth.�

�But a job�s a job,� said Sargent.

�No job�s worth what you�ll go through under Chapman. He�ll drive you crazy, like�� Pelkey stopped and his face twitched horribly. �He�ll drive you crazy,� he repeated. �He�ll drive you crazy!� Pelkey�s voice rose to a shriek and he began clenching and unclenching his fists.

Sargent got up from the cane rocking chair. Pelkey, guessing his intention, stepped forward and blocked the door. �No, you don�t, Sargent. You�re not going to call them. I�m as sane as anyone. Only Chapman, the dirty...� A sob was torn from his throat and he suddenly hurled himself upon Sargent.

Sargent tried to dodge and stumbled against the chair. Pelkey�s hands closed about his windpipe and choked the breath out of it. Sargent tried to tear Pelkey�s hands away, but couldn�t. A roaring began to fill his ears.

Savagely, he smashed Pelkey in the stomach with his fist. The hands loosened about his throat, air rushed into his lungs, and he drove his fist into Pelkey�s stomach once more.

Pelkey crashed to the floor on his back. He lay there for an instant staring up at Sargent with a dazed expression. Then he began to get up slowly.

Sargent retreated, but Pelkey made no further move against him. He shook his head. �I forgot myself for a moment.�

�Forget it,� said Sargent. �Why don�t you go home and get a good night�s rest?�

�Home!� Pelkey laughed harshly. �The police are spying on me constantly. I can�t rest, can�t sleep. They think I killed Dan Sligo. The fools!�

�Who did kill Sligo?� Sargent asked softly.

�Wouldn�t you like to know?�

�Yes.�

�Well, you won�t know. Nor will anyone else � except the one who killed him. You�re off the track � all of you. �Way, �way off. Ben Chapman... ah!�

Pelkey whirled suddenly, jerked open the door and leaped through. When Sargent got to the hall, Pelkey was taking the front stairs three at a time.

When Sargent got to the office the next morning he found Jim Robertson seated at Mildred O�Kelly�s desk, reading the morning paper.

�Hello, Frank,� he said. �Read the morning paper? Ernest Pelkey disappeared. His wife has asked the police to look for him.�

Sargent nodded. �He�s in pretty bad shape. He came to my hotel last night.�

�What?�

�I was at Ben Chapman�s. Lieutenant Fanning came up there and told us that Pelkey was on the loose. When I got home, Pelkey was in my room. He�d picked the doorlock with a skeleton key.�

Jim Robertson whistled softly, �What�d he say?�

Sargent touched his throat reminiscently. It was still sore from Pelkey�s hands. �He tried to strangle me.�

Robertson gasped. �What�d you do to him?�

�Not much. I had to hit him a couple of times, but he was all right when he ducked out.�

Robertson looked steadily at Sargent. �Why did he come to your place? He didn�t even know you.�

�As a matter of fact,� said Sargent, �I did meet Pelkey once, for just a minute. I called at his house to quiz his wife for the Trotter Poll. Pelkey came to the door and became very abusive. He raved about Chapman. It was curiosity as much as anything else that brought me here to interview Chapman. Curiosity to see the man who had obviously turned Pelkey into what he was.�

�I see,� said Robertson. �You know, Sargent, sometimes I don�t know how to figure you out.�

�That goes for you, too, Robertson,� said Sargent.

Robertson gave a forced laugh. �Aw, forget it. Tell me about Ben�s party. I�ve never been to one, but Lew Thayer says they�re screams.�

�This one was a scream,� said Sargent. �Let�s go down to Joe�s Lunch Room for a cup of coffee and I�ll tell you about it.�

�Okay.�

They started for the door, but before they reached it the little switchboard buzzed. Robertson went back to it and manipulated a switch. �Business Journals,� he said. Then, �Mr. Chapman? Sorry, but he never gets in before eleven o�clock. Is there anyone else... the editor of Creep & Crawl? One moment and I�ll call him. Never mind...?�

He flicked the switch and put down the head set. �That, Mr. Sargent, was Ben O. Chapman calling himself up on the telephone to see if he was here.�

�What?�

�Uh-huh, disguised voice and all. Wait�ll he comes in this morning, I�ll throw a little harpoon into him. Watch him squirm. Now, let�s go and get that coffee.�

They encountered Mildred O�Kelly in the lobby and paused to talk to her a moment, then resumed their walk down to the lunchroom. Over their coffee, Sargent said to Robertson:

�You know, Jim, there�s one thing about Ernest Pelkey�s call on me last night that hasn�t struck you. It bowled me over when I thought about it. How did Pelkey know where I lived?�

Robertson choked on a mouthful of coffee. �He must have come down to the office in the evening and got your address.�

�I thought of that,� said Sargent. �And if he came last night he could have come up to the office a couple of nights ago.�

Robertson stared at Sargent. Then he shook his head. �No, I won�t believe that of Ernie. He wouldn�t have killed Sligo, because he�s the one man who did get along with him.�

�You and Pelkey were pretty good friends?�

�Are,� corrected Robertson. �Ernie�s � sick, now, but that�s no reason for me to let him down.�

�Of course not, Jim. Now let me tell you about Ben�s party. You lose that bet about the gorgeous Eileen. She brought Mr. Crombie of Eli Crombie & Company to the party... and got a contract from him.�

Jim Robertson groaned. �So Ben wins again! There�s no justice.�

�There is � some. It was meted out last night. Ben put on a false face and was waving a Persian scimitar when Lew Thayer staggered in, crocked to the gills. When he saw Ben he thought he was having d.t.�s and socked Ben.�

Robertson roared, �Hard?�

�Right on the nose. Ben lost about a pint of blood. But Ben got even. Lieutenant Fanning of the cops came in and Ben snitched on Lew. When I left they were having a free-for-all, with Lew getting none the worst of it. By the way, did you know that Chapman owes Lew twelve hundred dollars?�

�Lew told me about it. But that�s nothing new. Most of Ben�s suits are from former advertising salesmen. You see, Ben has a cute stunt he pulls on advertising salesmen. He pays them forty or fifty bucks a week, plus expenses and twenty per cent commission on all the business they get. Sounds like a good proposition, eh? But he limits expenses to seventy-five a week, when they�re on the road, which means the salesmen have to sleep in two-dollar hotel rooms and ride busses instead of trains. The commissions... well, Ben never pays them. So the salesman quits and sues Ben. He stalls the suit until he wears the poor guy down, then offers to settle for about ten per cent. Usually the guy�ll take it. Not bad, huh?�

Sargent shook his head. �Ben knows all the tricks.�

�All the shady ones.�

It was nearing ten-thirty, so they paid for their coffee and returned to the office. As they entered, Jim Robertson nudged Sargent. Mrs. Sligo was ensconced in a chair beside the switchboard. She regarded them truculently.

�You men work here?�

Robertson nodded. �I�m Robertson and this is Frank Sargent, Mrs. Sligo.�

Mrs. Sligo sniffled. �Is this your usual time for getting down � ten-thirty?�

�We were here earlier. We just stepped out for a cup of coffee.�

�On the company�s time? You ought to be docked for it. I�ll speak to Ben Chapman about it.�

Straight ahead, in Dan Sligo�s old office, the auditor was going over the books. Mr. Koppis, Mrs. Sligo�s attorney, was in the office with the auditor, smoking a crooked Pittsburgh stogie. It was a long time since Sargent had seen anyone smoking a stogie.

He went into his office and found a half dozen copies of the new Turkey Talk, He picked one up and it opened at the editorial page, which also contained the masthead. He noticed his name: �Frank Sargent, Managing Editor.� Then his eyes fell to the editorial. It was not the one he had seen in galley form. That had been a comparatively harmless one, a mere discussion of the turkey industry. The one in print was a blast against Hanson Hill, the owner of the competitive Turkey Tracks. It was plain, unadulterated libel � if Chapman couldn�t back it up.

�Hanson Hill,� the editorial stated, �has no more business publishing a turkey journal than I have trying to swim to the Fiji Islands � and I can�t swim. Hill is a hillbilly from Missouri. He knows less about the publishing business, or any kind of business, than I know about the Neanderthal tribal customs. When I began Turkey Talk, Hill came to me and begged me to employ him as a subscription solicitor. I put him on and sent him down to the Ozarks, among his own people. He took a few subscription orders, but he spent most of his time organizing a turkey pool. He persuaded those poor, deluded hillbillies that they could get a higher price for their market turkeys if they pooled them together and obtained bids from the commission houses. The bids came and every bid was identical � ten cents per pound below the regular market prices. Who sold out the pool to the commission houses? That is the question every Ozark turkey raiser should ask.

�When Hill first came to me he had only one shirt, which he laundered himself in his furnished room, every other Thursday. Yet a few months later � right after the turkey pool debacle � Hanson Hill had enough funds to start a turkey journal � a costly enterprise, I can assure you...�

There was more along the same lines. Frank Sargent read it all twice. Never in his life had he read a more scurrilous, libelous attack on a man�s character. And Ben O. Chapman had the nerve to sign his name to the editorial: �Ben O. Chapman, Publisher.�

Sargent was still thinking about the editorial when the master�s voice called from his office. He had apparently come in while Sargent was reading.

He went to Ben O. Chapman�s office. The publisher waved a letter opener at him. �Why�d you run out last night?�

�I was all in,� Sargent lied. �I had a toothache all the night before and didn�t get a wink of sleep.�

Chapman sniffed. �Humph! You missed the fun. That policeman punched Lew Thayer in the nose, finally, to sober him up. And that slimy Eli Crombie got his face scratched by Miss Prescott. By the way, what did you think of her?�

�A pippin!�

�She�ll do � for Chicago. New Orleans is the place where they have good-looking wenches, if you like southern girls. If you don�t, go to Minneapolis. Personally, I like the girls in San Francisco.�

�You never married, did you?� Sargent asked.

�Me? Yes, eight-ten years ago. It didn�t take. As I was saying, I fired Lew Thayer. Should have done it weeks ago. I can�t stand an advertising salesman who drinks. Had a fellow working for me on the Sugar Beet Review; smartest chap you ever saw, but��

The door of Chapman�s office opened and Mrs. Sligo filled the doorway. Her arms were folded � or almost folded � over her ample bosom.

�Ben Chapman,� she said, �I want a word with you. It�s high time you��

�Later,� Chapman said. �Later, when��

�Now!� said Mrs. Sligo firmly. �You can�t shilly-shally me like you did Daniel.�

�I was just going,� murmured Sargent.

�He�s one of the things I want to talk to you about,� snorted Mrs. Sligo. �Coming to work at ten-thirty in the morning! What is this, a club or a fraternity house?�

Sargent couldn�t escape because Mrs. Sligo wouldn�t move out of the doorway.

�What�s that, Sargent?� cried Chapman. �Ten-thirty in the morning?�

�Yes,� said Sargent. �I was doing a special errand.� He turned and winked deliberately at Chapman. �You know, regarding that matter you spoke to me about last night.�

�Oh! Oh, yes! Humph! Mrs. Sligo, Sargent was doing some work for me. Only I run this office. Daniel Sligo tried to interfere and I told him as I tell you now, Mrs. Sligo, that I am the majority stockholder of this firm and��

�You�re what, Ben Chapman?�

Sargent, watching Chapman�s face, was sure that Chapman winced before replying, �That�s something that can be discussed at the next directors� meeting.�

He got his hat and left the office. He walked north to Lake Street and climbing the elevated stairs boarded a train for River Forest.

Fifty minutes later he strode briskly down the dead-end street toward the neat, white Cape Cod cottage of the Pelkeys.

He opened the gate in the white picket fence and approached the door. He rang the bell. The door was opened almost instantly by Hester Pelkey and Sargent marveled at the beauty of her. He�d almost forgotten.

He said: �Excuse me, Mrs. Pelkey, I represent the Trotter Institute of��

And then she recognized him. �You!� she gasped. �Why... why, how dare you! I mean...� So she knew that he was working for Ben O. Chapman.

How did she know that?

How had Ernest Pelkey known?

His name had been in the papers in connection with the murder of Sligo. He had been listed among the employees. But the Pelkeys had not known his name; when he had first called here he had not given it.

He said to Mrs. Pelkey, �I�m sorry, Mrs. Pelkey. I work for Ben Chapman and he�s asked me to tell Ernest that he wants to talk to him about something urgent.�

�Go away,� whispered Hester Pelkey. �I won�t talk to you.� She started to close the door on Sargent and he said quickly:

�Ernest came to see me last night.�

She stopped closing the door. �What do you mean... last night?�

�It was shortly after eleven; I�d been out and when I returned to my room he was there � inside the room.�

She stared at him, bewildered. �But that was after...�

�Yes,� he said. �I�ll tell you the truth. I was at a party at Ben Chapman�s apartment. While I was there a policeman came to tell Chapman that Ernest had disappeared. And then when I went home he was there.�

He could see the pain in her eyes, the question, too, that she didn�t want to ask.

�He was all right, a bit wrought up, but all right.�

Hester Pelkey suddenly pulled the door open. �Please... come in.�

He followed her into a tiny living room that was as neat as herself. The furniture was inexpensive stuff, but well selected. After his years of living in cheap, furnished rooms this place seemed a little like a dream to Frank Sargent.

Hester Pelkey seated herself wearily on a sofa and, after a moment�s hesitation, Sargent took an armchair.

Mrs. Pelkey worried her lower lip for a moment with sharp, white teeth. Then she said, �You know... about Ernest? His illness?�

He nodded. �Jim Robertson�s told me. He�s a loyal friend of your husband.�

�Jim. Yes,� she said. �They were very close friends. Chapman... I... I don�t understand about you. What do you want of Ernest?�

�Mrs. Pelkey,� said Sargent, �I�m going to tell you exactly how I stand. I�ve been working as a Trotter field man for some months. It�s part-time work and doesn�t pay too well. When I called here the other day I had nothing on my mind except to get another card filled out. I called here by the sheerest accident. And then Ernest � forgive me if this hurts � acted so strangely that I became curious to see what kind of person could do to Ernest what had obviously been done to him. I had to quiz some businessmen anyway, so I called on Chapman. You know about Chapman, from Ernest.�

�I�ve met him, too, I�m sorry to say.�

�Then you know what he�s like. I went up to his office to ask him for his views on topics of the day. I never got in a word edgewise. Chapman went into a monologue and before I knew it I was hired as editor of Turkey Talk.�

�I know that,� said Hester Pelkey. �Now I�ll make a confession. Jim Robertson telephoned Ernest yesterday and told him about you... that very same thing.�

�Oh,� said Sargent, somewhat deflated. �Then if you knew, I don�t understand...�

�Nor did Ernest. Or I. You�re a new employee of Chapman�s, you scarcely know him... yet Chapman has confided in you. He asked you to one of his parties. Ernest was the only employee of Chapman�s who was ever thus honored.�

Sargent�s forehead creased. �Chapman is a fantastic character. He is a mass of contradictions. Yet underneath I�m convinced is a shrewd brain. Your husband has something that Chapman wants.�

�Of course!�

Sargent looked at her sharply, questioningly. �What is it?�

�Don�t you know?�

�Chapman didn�t tell me, but I think I can guess. Mrs. Sligo sprung something embarassing on Chapman and immediately thereafter he sent me to locate your husband. It�s... stock in Business Journals, Incorporated?�

�Yes! One share.�

Sargent inhaled softly. �The controlling share. Chapman owns fifty per cent; Sligo � I mean Mrs. Sligo � forty-nine. If she should happen to get the extra share, she�d be an equal owner of the business. But I don�t see how that would give her any advantage. It would be a standoff.�

�That�s right, but there happens to be still another share of stock. Chapman owns only forty-nine, Mrs. Sligo forty-nine.�

�Who owns this other share?�

�I don�t know.�

�Ernest knows?�

Hester Pelkey shook her lovely head. �No, he doesn�t. No one knows.�

Sargent stared. �But that�s absurd. Somebody�s got to know. I don�t know much about business law, but I�ve heard that stockholders� names must be recorded.�

�That�s right. Theoretically. From what I gathered, the way Ernest told it, a corporation has to have at least three different stockholders. But neither Chapman nor Sligo trusted each other. Sligo wouldn�t let Chapman have more stock than he had. So they compromised. Each took forty-nine shares, then each sold � or gave � one share to another person, whom they figured they controlled. Ernest got his share from Chapman. He voted the stock the way Chapman wanted, whenever there was occasion.�

�And Sligo?�

�Sligo wouldn�t tell.�

�But he had to put a name on the books.�

�He put down the name of Hanson Hill.�

�Hanson Hill?� gasped Sargent.

�That�s right. But Hill held possession of the stock only long enough to get his name on the company�s books. Then he sold it back to Sligo. At least, that�s what Ernest thought. But he said that Sligo never voted that share of stock, not in the last year, and therefore Chapman had virtual control of the company because he voted, with Ernest�s share, fifty percent against forty-nine. However, if Chapman doesn�t get Ernest�s share he will be in a bad way... particularly if Hanson Hill�s share should somehow turn up in the possession of Mrs. Sligo.�

�Mrs. Sligo,� Sargent said thoughtfully. �Maybe I�ve underestimated the old girl.�

�Why?�

�No reason. I was just wondering.�

�You take the affairs of Business Journals very seriously. After all, you�re only��

There was an undercurrent of resentment in her tone and Sargent said quickly, �I�m only an employee � yes. I admit that Ben Chapman�s not the type of man I�d deliberately seek for an employer, but the little I�ve seen of the trade paper business makes me want to go on in it. I want to learn as much as I can at Business Journals, then get a place with another house. After all, there must be hundreds of trade journals.�

�Two thousand,� said Hester Pelkey. �There isn�t an industry, trade or profession that doesn�t have its trade journals. I�m quoting. I�ve heard it a dozen times, fifty times. Ernest...�

�I�m sorry,� Sargent said. �I think I know what you�re going through and I�d like to help you. That�s why I think Ernest should be found at once. He needs help � medical care and a good rest. The sooner he�s found the sooner he�ll return to normal.�

�I know,� Mrs. Pelkey said, with a catch in her voice. �But I told you the truth; I don�t know where he is. I had to go out for a few minutes last night � to the store. When I returned he was gone.�

�But don�t you know where he would be likely to go? I mean, has he any other relatives?�

�Not around Chicago. Ernest�s family lives in Seattle.�

�What about money? Did he take any with him?�

�Very little. Perhaps twenty dollars.�

�Clothes?�

�Only what he was wearing.�

�What about his habits? Did he... drink?�

�No more than anyone else. Probably less. He wasn�t a barfly, if that�s what you�re thinking.�

�No-no,� Sargent said hastily. �I just thought I might get a lead on his whereabouts through his habits.�

�Well, you won�t find him in a saloon. He was fond of skiing.�

�This is summer, so I won�t find him on any ski trains.� Sargent frowned. �You haven�t the slightest inkling of where I might look for him?�

�If I had,� said Hester Pelkey with quiet dignity, �would I be here talking to you? I would be with him.�

Sargent got up. �Thank you, Mrs. Pelkey. Just one thing more: will you look upon me as a friend, even though I work for Ben Chapman?�

Mrs. Pelkey smiled faintly. �I see no reason to regard you as an enemy.� That was the most she would give him. The hostility was still there. He started to leave, but paused at the door.

�By the way, was Ernest home the evening before last?�

He lips started to form the monosyllable �No,� then the significance of the question hit her and her eyes were jolted wide open.

�Yes!� she gasped. �Of course he was. I was with him all evening.�

�Thank you, Mrs. Pelkey,� said Sargent. �Goodby.�

He left the little white cottage and walked to the elevated station. Riding back to the city he stared out the window at the rooftops of the shabby West Side houses. There was a frown of concentration and annoyance on his face, which did not clear until he reached the Loop.

Descending to Van Buren Street, he entered a drugstore and looked up an address in the telephone directory. About to leave the store, he returned and looked up another address.

Then he walked swiftly across the Loop to Clark and Randolph, where he entered a dingy building that could have been a twin of the Dockery on the south side of the Loop.

He consulted the building directory, then climbed the stairs to the second floor. After a moment he paused before a ground-glass door panel on which was lettered:

He opened the door and stepped into a dingy office. It contained a rickety desk behind which sat a redheaded girl who was reading a copy of Snappy Detective Stories. On the opposite side of the room, almost concealed by the opened door, was a bench on which was stretched Mr. Wilting, the detective. He looked as if he hadn�t slept in three nights.

�Ah,� said Sargent, �Mr. Wilting!�

The redhead lowered her magazine. �You wish to see Mr. Decker? He�s out at the moment, a big case.�

�I want to see Mr. Wilting,� Sargent said.

Mr. Wilting opened his eyes slightly, but made no other movement.

�I work for Ben O. Chapman,� Sargent said. �Remember?�

Mr. Wilting blinked to indicate that he did remember.

�Mr. Chapman sent me here,� Sargent said, crisply. �He didn�t want to call you from the office, because Mrs. Sligo is there with her attorney and an accountant.�

�Yeah,� whispered Mr. Wilting sleepily.

�He wanted me to tell you to continue on the assignment he gave you.�

�Yeah.�

�And he wanted to know if you�d learned anything since your last report.�

�Yeah,� said the detective.

�What?�

Mr. Wilting�s eyes closed altogether.

�He�s gone,� said the redheaded secretary. �Try building a fire under him.�

�I�ll give him a hotfoot,� said Sargent angrily.

�I�m awake,� said the great detective. �I�m just conserving energy.�

�You must be full of it, then,� said Sargent sarcastically, �since you don�t use any. Do you mind giving me a report on what you�ve learned about Mr. Sligo?�

�Gertrude,� said Wilting, without turning his head. �Call up Ben Chapman. Ask him if it�s all right.�

�Of course it�s all right,� snapped Sargent. �He sent me here. No need to call him at the office. In fact, he doesn�t want you to.�

�Got to,� said Wilting. �Don�t know you from the Emperor Hirohito. Information�s confidential.�

Sargent looked contemptuously at the detective. �I doubt if you�ve learned anything, anyway.�

Wilting began to snore gently. Exasperated, Sargent turned away. Gertrude, the redheaded stenographer, made a clucking sound with her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

�You won�t get anything out of him now,� she said. �Better give Mr. Decker a jingle on the phone when he gets back this afternoon. Or shall I have him call you?�

�No, let it go. I�ll tell Mr. Chapman. It�s up to him.�

Wilting was still snoring when Sargent left the office.

He walked slowly back toward Division Street. At the corner of Clark Street he stood for five minutes marshaling his thoughts, which were becoming more muddled right along. Finally he went into a drugstore and ordered a Coca-Cola. Finished, he paid his check and walked to the telephone directory stand. He looked up Hanson Hill, but couldn�t find the name, so tried Turkey Tracks. He found:

The address was only four blocks from where he stood. He left the drugstore and walked briskly southward. Crossing Chicago Avenue, ten minutes later he approached a dingy two-story building. The windows were painted black, halfway to the top, but dirty white lettering on the black read:

Sargent opened the door directly into a print shop. A linotype at the back of the shop made a continuous clatter and near the front an ink-stained youth was feeding letterheads into a Kelly press.

Just inside the door a man sat at a littered desk. He had a stack of postcards in front of him and was writing with a fountain pen. He was a long beanpole of a man with eyebrows as black and bushy as those of John L. Lewis. Sitting down, Sargent could not guess his height, but knew that it was considerable. Yet the man probably weighed no more than 120 pounds.

He poised his fountain pen over the stack of postcards and looked up. �Yes, sir?� he said.

�I�m looking for Hanson Hill.�

�What for? I mean, why do you want him?�

Sargent�s eyes fell to the desk. A copy of Turkey Talk was opened at the classified ads. In a quick glance he was able, also, to read the message the long, lean man was writing on the postcards. It read:

Sargent said, �I represent the Trotter Institute of Public Opinion. Mr. Hill has been selected as a representative businessman whose opinion we would like to obtain on important topics of the day.�

The lean man put down his fountain pen, pushed back his chair and hooked his thumbs into his suspenders. �Mister, I�m Hanson Hill and I�m proud to know you. I�ve heard of that there poll of your�n and I�d be mighty glad to give you my opinion. I�m on the right side, too. I�m from Missouri and my folks allus been Demycrats, as far back as before the war � the War Between the States.�

Sargent scribbled on one of his Trotter blanks. �That�s fine, Mr. Hill. Now, this is our first question: �Since Labor has the right to organize for collective bargaining without hindrance of the employer, is it your opinion that men in the service, soldiers, sailors and marines, should also be permitted to unionize and bargain for better wages and working conditions?� �

Hanson Hill blinked and shot a quick look over his shoulder. Then he leaned forward and said in a hoarse whisper, �Shh! These-here printers are union fellas and they wouldn�t like for me to say anything against unions. But I sure agree with you on that.�

�I didn�t make any statement,� Sargent said. �I merely asked you for your opinion.�

�I didn�t get it. Mind repeatin� the question?�

Sargent repeated it slowly.

Hanson Hill scratched his head. �Well, I dunno. I�m ag�in labor unions, if that�s what you mean.�

�No, it wasn�t what I meant.� Sargent again repeated his question. When he finished Hanson Hill looked blankly at him.

�Yeah, sure,� he said.

Sargent wrote down �No,� then asked his second question. �Since men on relief or WPA are accepting largess from the government, is it your opinion that they should be inducted into the service, in preference to taxpayers whose money has made it possible for the relief and WPA subsidy?�

�Yeah, sure,� said Hanson Hill. �I mean � gosh, no! That�d be drafting anyone who ever was on relief or WPA, wouldn�t it?�

�The question asks whether you are in favor of such a move.�

�Well, hell, no! I got folks on relief right now, down in Missouri. I wouldn�t want them drafted, unless maybe it�s Cousin Talbot Hill, who�s a no-account anyway. Could you put him down for the draft, maybe?�

�No,� said Sargent. �I�m not employed by the government. Now, let�s see, you�re in the publishing business. What do you publish?�

�The best damn� turkey paper in the country. Turkey Tracks. A real turkey journal for turkey folks, put out by a man who knows turkeys. That�s me.�

�How interesting! There are other turkey journals besides yours?�

The black patches of fur that were Hanson Hill�s eyebrows drew together. �There�s a skunk here in town gets out a magazine, called Turkey Talk. He don�t know no more �bout turkeys than my Aunt Mamie does about flyin� an airplane. Furthermore, I figure to ventilate him one of these-here fine days. He�s got no call to make dirty cracks at me.�

�Ah,� said Sargent, �a business feud.�

�It�s a feud, all right. Y�see, �bout a year ago I came here to Chicago to see �bout getting me a job of work. I didn�t find no more job than a hog finds acorns in a cornfield. Then along about the time I couldn�t buckle up my belt no more on account of if I had I�d cut myself in two I seen this-here Turkey Talk and, shucks, it struck home. Back in Missouri we raised turkeys. Finest Bourbon Red turkeys you ever laid eyes on. So I went up to this-here Ben Chapman and I says to him, �Mister, you got yourself a turkey journal, but you don�t know nothin� about raisin� turkeys. I know turkeys, but I ain�t got a turkey journal, so how �bout havin� a merger?� Well, he was smart enough to see my point and we made a deal. I was to go out in the turkey country and get him subscriptions for his journal, a dollar per year�s term, and I was to send him fifty cents of that. Also I was to try to get turkey folks to advertise in the journal, this-here Chapman promisin� to pay me twenty-five per cent on all the money he got from the advertising?�

�Well,� said Sargent, �that sounds like a reasonable proposition. Where does the feud come in?�

�Why, shucks, I was tellin� you about that. There wasn�t but one turkey journal in the whole country, and when folks�d see it, they�d just naturally want to subscribe to it. Heck, I got two hundred and twenty subscriptions the first month I was working. I had to send this-here Chapman a hun�erd and ten dollars of that, which didn�t seem fair to me. I was the man gettin� the orders for him and all he was doin� was sendin� these subscribers a little magazine, that didn�t cost him more�n a cent and a half a copy to print. Well, Jumpin� Joe Shelby, that didn�t seem right to me, so I found me this-here Community Print Shop and I says to Mr. Community, I mean, Mr. Dick Matoon, who really owns the place, I says to him, �Mr. Matoon, let�s me and you start a turkey journal. I�ll get the subscriptions and advertisin� and you print her.� So that�s what we done and now look what this-here skunk says...�

Hanson Hill picked up the copy of Turkey Talk and turned to the editorial page. He read: � �When Hill first came to me he had only one. shirt, which he laundered himself in his furnished room, every other Thursday.� Now what do you think of that?�

�I�d say it was dirty � not the shirt, the editorial. It isn�t true, of course?�

�You danged right it ain�t. And I resent it. I washed that-there shirt twice a week and what�s more I ironed it, too. I got me a good notion to go down and horsewhip this Chapman fella.�

�Chapman, did you say?� Sargent exclaimed suddenly. �Say, isn�t he the publisher whose name was in the papers a couple of days ago... something about a murder committed in his office?�

�Yeah, that�s the fella sure �nough. Chapman�s partner, Sligo, was bumped off. Wasn�t much loss, though. He was almost as bad as Chapman. He gave me a share of stock, sold it to me for a dollar. I seen a chance to make a small profit on it...�

�And you sold the stock?�

�Yeah, sure. Fella offered me twenty-five dollars. I needed the money for travelin� expenses, on account of Chapman not givin� me enough to get back to Missouri. Then this Sligo wanted me to sell him back the stock and got awful mad when I told him I�d already sold it.�

�To whom did you sell it?�

Hanson Hill�s bushy eyebrows came up. �Why? You wouldn�t know the fellow.�

�Of course not. I merely became interested in your story.�

�Well, it was a young fella workin� in the place. Fella named...� And then, with the name on the very tip of his tongue, Hanson Hill shrugged and sighed, �Got to get to work, mister.�

Crestfallen, Sargent could do nothing but thank Hill for giving him the quiz information and take his departure. Outside he saw that it was twelve-thirty and so he got a bite of food in a drugstore and rode back to the offices of Business Journals, Incorporated.

Ben O. Chapman was out of the office, but the staff was assembled in the corridor between the cubbyholes of offices. They were surrounding Eileen Prescott, the beautiful advertising solicitor.

She squealed in delight when she saw Sargent. �Oh, Frankie! I was just telling the folks about my marvelous luck.�

�You mean the Crombie contract?�

�Oh, that�s ancient history. I was working this morning. I decided there was no sense in going around to all the commission houses, when most of the advertising was placed by the H. W. Quayle Company.�

Sargent reeled. �You hooked Horace Quayle?�

�Hooked? I don�t know what you mean.�

Jim Robertson dug his elbow into Sargent�s ribs. �Horace is taking her out to dinner tonight.�

�Yes!� cried Eileen. �And isn�t that marvelous? He controls so many accounts. If my luck continues to hold, why, I may get another contract... maybe even more.�

�Your luck�ll hold, baby,� said Grosvenor Black. �Just roll your eyes when he makes a pass at you...�

�Mr. Black!� Eileen�s voice was indignant. �Are you insinuating...?�

�Naw,� said Black quickly. �I�m not insinuating. I�m just saying that this race is being run in the jockey room, not on the track.�

Eileen�s beautiful eyes flashed. �I don�t understand your racetrack talk, but I think that�s a dirty crack and��

Whack!

That was her hand colliding with Grosvenor�s face. Black promptly ducked into his private office and slammed the door.

�If you ask me,� said Mildred O�Kelly, �Grosvenor Black said a mouthful!�

Eileen turned upon Mildred. �Nobody asked you,� she said sweetly.

Sargent saw Mildred stepping forward and casually blocked her passage. �Easy, Milly.�

�Let �em fight!� cried Andy Lawrence. �I�ll take the winner to lunch.�

�Take Eileen,� snapped Jim Robertson.

�Frankie�s taking me to lunch,� said Eileen, �aren�t you, Frankie?�

�No. I just had lunch. Sorry.�

Eileen tossed her curls. Before she could make a retort, however, Mrs. Sligo followed by her stooges, Koppis the attorney and Duma the accountant, swept into the office.

�Here, here!� she cried. �Is this a dance hall or is it a business office? I�ll fire the lot of you if you don�t stop this nonsense during working hours. I won�t have it, understand?�

The group dispersed promptly, Eileen taking refuge in Ben O. Chapman�s office. Sargent slumped down in his creaky swivel chair and stared at his littered desk. The way he felt he was ready to chuck the job and go to a madhouse for a rest cure. The office routine itself wasn�t hectic enough; Ben O. Chapman had to force him into doing detective work.

He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. He was almost dozing when Jim Robertson spoke, �How�s it going, Frank?�

Sargent opened his eyes with a start. �Uh, hello, Jim. Okay, I guess.�

Robertson shoved the door shut. �I told you that the wall between my office and Chapman�s is thin and he doesn�t bother to keep his voice down... I mean the detective stuff, Frank.�

Sargent grimaced. �To hell with Chapman. I�m figuring on quitting.�

�Why? Jobs are scarce. If they weren�t I wouldn�t be here myself... Did you see Mrs. Pelkey?�

Sargent nodded. �She feels pretty bad about Ernest. They�re pretty newly married, aren�t they?�

�Oh, no, Three years or more, Matter of fact, they didn�t hit it off so well, but with Ernest having this breakdown she feels duty bound to remain loyal to him,�

Sargent looked thoughtfully at Robertson. �What do you think yourself of Ernest Pelkey... I mean mentally?�

�I don�t think there�s any question about that, Frank. He�s definitely gone. I hate to admit that because we were very close... Chapman drove him mad.�

�Was it Chapman, Jim?�

�What do you mean?�

�I mean he stood it two years; why should he suddenly go off the deep end?�

�It wasn�t sudden. Ernest was getting nervous for some time. Months.�

�Ever since Hanson Hill worked here?�

�The turkey raiser? I doubt if he and Ernest had more than two words together. None of us had much to do with him.�

�Oh, Hill�s been here as recently as that?�

�He only left about three months ago. About four months, that is. He went on a trip then, but was supposed to be working for us until three months ago. Chapman claims that the last month he was working for himself. It�s one of the things he had against Hill... Have you met Hill?�

�This morning. He didn�t strike me as being a very formidable competitor. When I called at his office he was writing postcards in longhand, to the advertisers in our magazine, telling them if they wanted to advertise in a real turkey journal, run by a real turkey raiser, to try Turkey Tracks.�

Jim Robertson chuckled. �Sounds like Hill. He was the biggest hillbilly ever came into this office.�

�Yet he�s got Chapman awfully excited. Did you read the editorial in this month�s Turkey Talk?�

�I always read his editorials. That�s the only fun I get around here. Although this Eileen Prescott has possibilities.�

Sargent groaned. �You should have heard what H. W. Quayle said to me yesterday... and tonight Eileen�s got a date with him!�

�She�ll take him like� Shh!�

Ben Chapman�s step sounded in the corridor, then his whining voice exclaimed. �Sargent, are you here?�

�Yes!�

�All right, you�re fired. Pack your things and get out.�

Sargent gasped and even Jim Robertson�s mouth fell open. Sargent kicked back his chair and got to the door of his office as Chapman came up to it. Chapman�s lips were pressed in a straight line.

�If there�s one thing I won�t tolerate, it�s disloyalty,� said Chapman.

�Chapman,� began Sargent hotly, �you beat me to it by about two minutes. I was going to quit. But before I go let me tell you something.�

�Save your breath! Come into my office and I�ll give you your money up to this minute. You�re through and I won�t even give you a reference.�

A haze of red danced before Frank Sargent�s eyes. For a moment he fought an almost uncontrollable impulse to smash Chapman in the face. But he conquered the impulse and, throwing up his hands, followed the publisher into his office.

Inside, Chapman turned on him. �Now, what�s this about quitting?�

�Quitting? You fired me.�

�Maybe I will yet. I�m greatly disappointed in you, Sargent. I had high hopes for you. You have initiative and imagination. But I can�t stand disloyalty in a man. Why did you go to the Decker office this morning?�

Sargent groaned. �So that�s it. Wilting called you up. Why, dammit, you told me to find Ernest Pelkey, didn�t you?�

�I did, but what has he got to do with Wilting?�

�I don�t know. You wouldn�t tell me a damn� thing. You expect me to find him in a dark cave?�

�I told you all that was necessary to know about Pelkey. It wasn�t necessary to pump Wilting about my personal affairs.�

�Personal, hell! You want Pelkey because he�s got a share of stock that you�re afraid will get into Mrs. Sligo�s hands. All right, you were having Sligo shadowed. Why?�

�That�s none of your concern.�

�It isn�t, if I�m working here as an editor. It is, if I�m acting as your personal detective and stool pigeon. Pelkey�s disappearance is tied up with Sligo�s death and if I�m to find Pelkey for you I�ve got to know something about Sligo.�

Ben Chapman stared at Sargent in astonishment. �Why, yes, I never thought about it that way. Humph! Very clever of, you, Sargent. Yes, yes! You go right ahead. I�m more than half convinced myself that Pelkey killed Sligo.�

�I didn�t say that.�

�But you meant it.�

�I did not! Now, are you going to tell me about Sligo?�

�Of course. What do you want to know about him?�

�Everything. How long was he your partner?�

�A year.�

�Is that all? I�d been under the impression it was much longer.�

�A year was too long. I never had a partner before. Had a little bad luck. With editors. Three-four of them quit me and started competitive magazines. Too many magazines in a field kills it for everyone. I had to drop a couple of magazines. I sold The Hot Dog Stand at a loss. It cost me a lot of money to establish Creep and Crawl and Turkey Talk and The Skating Rink. I had to get some outside capital and the bank wouldn�t lend it to me. That�s how Sligo got in here, the loafer!�

The door of Chapman�s office was kicked open and Mrs. Sligo filled the doorway. �I heard that, Ben Chapman! You low-down, sniveling, whining good-for-nothing! Speak ill of the dead, will you? Dan Sligo was the kindest man who ever��

�He didn�t say that of you!� Chapman shouted. �He said you nagged him morning and noon and woke him up in the middle of the night to nag some more.�

�What?� screamed Mrs. Sligo. �Dan said that?�

�Your neighbors said it, too. I understand they had to call in the police to quiet you down.�

�That�s a lie, Ben Chapman! A dirty, filthy lie. How dare you talk like that to me?�

�Then learn to hold your tongue.�

�Me hold my tongue? What about yours? It�s longer than a hyena�s. And louder. No wonder your wife walked out on you. She couldn�t stand your slimy tongue.�

�If you�ve finished,� Chapman said coldly, �I�ll get back to work.�

�You work?� Mrs. Sligo said scornfully. �Twiddle your thumbs... until the day after tomorrow. Then I�ll tell you a thing or two. And just to keep you awake, chew on this: Mr. Duma is about finished with the books and he�s discovered some very, very interesting things!�

Mrs. Sligo slammed the door as she flounced out.

�All women,� said Chapman, �should be drowned at birth. Let�s see, where were we?�

�You were talking about Sligo,� Sargent said, in a low tone.

�Ah, yes, my partner. Sligo came along at the psychological time. He put in twenty thousand, which tided the business over for a few months until I put it on its feet.�

�Yes,� said Sargent. �And you gave Ernest Pelkey one share of stock at the time��

�He stole it!� snapped Chapman. �The thief! You�ve got to have at least three stockholders in a corporation so I issued a share to Pelkey... purely a matter of convenience, you understand. I put his name on the books, but didn�t actually give him the stock. I kept it myself... and then he stole it. That�s why I fired him, the ingrate! After what I did for him, too.�

�How do you know he stole it?�

�Who else would have taken it? His name was on the certificate. It wouldn�t be worth anything to anyone, unless Pelkey himself transferred it.�

�Do you think he might have?�

Chapman swallowed with difficulty. �I don�t think so... not yet. But that woman...�

�Mrs. Pelkey?�

�No, no. Mrs. Sligo. She�s awfully sure of herself. She doesn�t know that I haven�t Pelkey�s stock to vote, yet...�

�So you think she has you outvoted fifty to forty-nine?�

�Mrs. Sligo has only forty-nine shares,� Chapman scowled? �All right, maybe she�s got fifty. Daniel and I took forty-nine, then each gave a share to an employee. Daniel probably got his back right away.�

�He didn�t. Hanson Hill sold it.�

�Hanson... what? How do you know?�

�He told me.�

�Who told you?�

�Hanson Hill.�

�When did you talk to Hanson Hill?� cried Chapman.

�This noon.�

�You talked to him? Sargent, why did you do... that?�

�Because I thought I might get some information. Oh, don�t worry. I didn�t identify myself. I called on him as a Trotter Poll man. I quizzed him and then pumped him about his personal affairs.�

�What did he say?�

�He said he washed his shirt twice a week.�

Ben Chapman reddened. �Dammit, Sargent, your levity will get the best of you someday. I hate a practical joker.�

�Well, that was what he seemed the maddest about. He let out that he�d sold the share of stock shortly after Sligo had given it to him. To someone in this office.�

Chapman got white. �Here? Who?�

�He didn�t tell. I asked him but he clamped down about that time. I couldn�t press the point, because of my position.�

Ben O. Chapman slumped down in his chair. Perspiration was beading his forehead. �I told you they hated me. All of them. They�ve sold me out. Mrs. Sligo has the stock and she�ll throw me out of my own business. Oh, if I�d only kept the Sugar Beet Review, this would never have happened. I�m a ruined man. Go away, Sargent!�

�I�m fired?�

�What�s the use? Mrs. Sligo will throw us all out the day after tomorrow.�

Sargent slipped out of the office and returned to his own. After a few moments of pulling himself together he picked up the stack of mail that had accumulated on his desk during the morning. Most of it was subscription mail and had already been slit open and the currency and checks extracted.

There was an article from a turkey contributor on how to eradicate worms in turkeys. It was written in pencil on ruled tablet paper. Sargent read it with considerable distaste. He put it to one side and then saw the special-delivery letter. It was addressed to:

It was marked �Personal & Confidential.�

Sargent slit open the envelope flap with one blade of his galleyproof trimming shears. He took out a single sheet of paper and opened it.

The message was a brief, but shocking one. It read:

Ernest Pelkey. Sargent had sought him all morning and now Pelkey had come to him.

He looked at the envelope. It was postmarked 9:30 that morning and had probably been delivered at the office shortly before noon.

It was ten minutes after two now. It would take him only twenty minutes to get to the place of the appointment, but Sargent was suddenly too restless to sit in the office. He put on his hat and went out, informing Mildred O�Kelly that he was going to call on an advertiser.

Outside he walked to Madison Street and turned eastward. He passed the McVickers Theatre, then turned back and bought a ticket. Inside he sat in the air-conditioned auditorium and watched a picture without even knowing what it was about. His brain was in a turmoil. He wondered if he shouldn�t telephone Mrs. Hester Pelkey and have her go with him to meet her husband.

But Pelkey had warned him not to bring anyone. If he did, the man was as likely as not to disappear completely. At least Pelkey had established contact with Sargent and it was up to the latter to persuade the sick man to go home.

At three-thirty he left the theater and walking back to Clark, boarded a streetcar. It was ten minutes to four when he got off at Armitage, on the Lincoln Park side of the street. He strolled into the park a little way, then came back and stood on the sidewalk facing the traffic.

At one minute to four Ernest Pelkey suddenly parted a clump of bushes behind Sargent and stepped out. �I see you got my letter,� he said.

Sargent whirled. �Hello, Pelkey. Yes, I got your letter. I also have a message from your wife. She�s worried about you.�

�Hester worried? Yah! Look, I�m going to give you the lowdown on Chapman. And Sligo and the whole damn� business. I want money and I�ll sell to the highest bidder. I�ll��

Pelkey was facing the street. His eyes suddenly bulged and his mouth fell open. �Look � out!� he cried and thrust both hands against Sargent�s chest. The attack was so sudden Sargent was caught off balance and went over backward to the sidewalk.

The bullets went over his head. He heard one smack into a tree, another made a dull �plop�... and then Ernest Pelkey fell over Frank Sargent.

Horrified, Sargent caught him, in his arms, rolled him over and scrambled to his feet. His eyes darted to the street, saw the rear end of a green coupe roaring north up Clark. He strained his eyes in the instant that the license plate was still in sight, but could make out only the last two numbers: 73.

A policeman�s whistle blasted, women screamed, and men cried out hoarsely as they converged upon Sargent and poor Ernest Pelkey.

Sargent got to the office a little after nine and found Mildred O�Kelly and Jim Robertson already there. He got the impression that their greetings lacked the customary warmth.

He said, �Well, what�s the score?�

�Nothing to nothing,� Robertson replied. �Ernest Pelkey was my friend.�

�Was? He�s...�

Robertson nodded. �He never regained consciousness.�

Sargent left them at the little switchboard and went into his private office. He sat at his desk until he heard Grosvenor Black come in and get the news from Jim Robertson.

Grosvenor�s high-pitched voice exclaimed, �And things ran so smoothly here before this Sargent fellow came.�

�I guess it isn�t his fault,� Sargent heard Robertson say. �It�s Chapman. And things never ran smoothly around Chapman. Even if it meant losing my job, I�d rather one of them had been... Chapman.�

�Jim!� cried Mildred O�Kelly.

�I don�t give a damn,� said Robertson. �I�m fed up... up to my ears. If I had even last week�s wages left I�d chuck it.�

�I�ve got a good horse today,� Grosvenor Black volunteered. �Kensico in the fourth at Havre de Grace.�

Sargent didn�t hear Robertson�s reply, but then Grosvenor Black passed his office, without sticking in his head to say good morning.

Andy Lawrence came in and had hardly said good morning when Eileen Prescott followed, hallooing and cooing. �I�m the luckiest girl!� she cried. �Mr. Quayle took me to dinner last night and was so kind. He practically forced me to accept an advertising contract for twelve pages. And he�s promised me some more... a simply huge amount. Oh, I can�t wait to tell Mr. Chapman!... What�s all the crape about?�

�Don�t you read the papers, dearie?� asked Mildred O�Kelly. �Or can�t you read?�

�Your cracks go over my head today, little girl,� retorted Eileen. �I�m too thrilled about everything.�

�So am I,� Robertson said brutally. �My best friend was murdered yesterday.�

�What? Oh, you�re joking!�

�Sure. I�m going to laugh at his funeral, too. Ha-ha-ha!�

Then Robertson banged the door of his office. Sargent heard Eileen�s high heels clicking toward his office and got up hastily. He met her at the doorway.

�It�s true, Eileen,� he said. �Ernest Pelkey was shot, yesterday. He had this job before me.�

Eileen gasped. She started to sway, but when Sargent made no move to catch her, she merely leaned against the doorjamb for support. �Why, that�s horrible!�

�Frank!� called Mildred O�Kelly. �Telephone. It�s... the boss!�

Sargent brushed past Eileen and, walking to the switchboard, picked up the hand set.

�Sargent,� he said.

�You�re fired,� Ben O. Chapman snapped, without preamble. �I don�t want you around the office when I get there.�

�I was just leaving,� Sargent snarled. He banged the set on the prongs and strode out of the office. He almost collided with Mrs. Sligo, just emerging from the elevator.

�Well!� she exclaimed. �You�re starting early today... leaving the office.�

�Mrs. Sligo,� Sargent said, �go sit on a tack. A big one!� He stepped into the elevator. �Going down!�

In front of the building a man hastily raised a newspaper before his face, but not quickly enough to prevent Sargent from seeing his face. It was the police detective who had followed him and Jim Robertson a couple of days ago.

Sargent said, �Look, I�m going to take a taxicab to my hotel. Why don�t we split the meter? We�ll both save money.�

The detective grinned sheepishly. �That�s against the rules. Lieutenant Fanning wouldn�t like it.�

�All right, then, I hope you lose me.� Sargent signaled to a cruising taxi, then watched the detective scramble toward another parked a half block away.

Sargent stepped into his own cab. �Around the corner as fast as you can make it, then stop. Here�s a half buck.�

�Huh?� exclaimed the startled cabby. Then he scowled and shifted into second gear. The car leaped away so swiftly that Sargent was hurled back against the cushions.

Before he could regain his balance the cab was careening around the corner and squealing to a stop. Sargent tumbled out and plunged for the door of a department store. As he leaped through the doors he shot a quick glance over his shoulder and saw the detective�s cab skidding to a halt beside the one he had just vacated.

Grimly he entered the store and headed for the first counter, which happened to be the ladies� hosiery. He admired a pair of nylon stockings for a moment, then when the detective failed to appear he went back to the door.

As he had expected, the detective was out of sight. He�d guessed that Sargent would enter one door and depart by another, on the adjoining street, and to save time had immediately headed for the far door.

Sargent popped out and quickly crossed the street. He entered a second-run theater and remained inside for a half hour. When he finally came out he boarded a streetcar and rode to North Avenue. There he transferred to a westbound car and a few minutes later swung off at Larrabee Street.

A few doors west of Larrabee he entered a bank and approached the Savings window. �How much have I got in my account?� he asked.

The teller went off to look it up, returning in a moment. �Ninety-two-fifty.�

That was all the money Sargent had been able to save in the last year. He said, �I want to draw out eighty-seven-fifty.�

�Very well, Mr. Sargent. If you�ll just fill out this form...�

With the money in his pocket he walked back to Larrabee and, crossing the diagonal Ogden Avenue, entered the elevated station.

Fifteen minutes later he descended to the street on Wells and Randolph and walking eastward to Michigan, entered the tall building opposite the public library. A sign outside the building read: John Crerar Library.

The building directory told him that trade journals were on the eighth floor and he rode up the elevator. He entered the trade journal room and scouted the rack containing Sugar Beet Review. He found it to be a nine-by-twelve, 32-page magazine.

The masthead gave the publishing address as Superior Street, Duluth, Minnesota, and the publisher as Louis J. Suttles. Mr. Suttles was also listed as editor.

The volume number was 16, which told Sargent that the magazine was sixteen years old. There were four full pages of advertising in the issue and enough small ads to make up a total of nine pages.

Approaching the desk to ask a question pertaining to Sugar Beet Review, Sargent saw a thick paperbound volume, entitled Standard Rate & Data Service. The name was familiar from the book on Journalism as a Career that Sargent had read only a few days ago and he opened it and looked up Sugar Beet Review. The listing gave complete advertising information regarding the magazine, and Sargent learned that the page rate was sixty dollars, on a yearly contract, or eighty dollars for a single insertion. Circulation was given as �3,000 circulation guaranteed.� Doing a bit of quick mental arithmetic Sargent estimated that the gross advertising revenue of Sugar Beet Review was in the vicinity of $630, figuring the rate at an average of $70 per page.

He didn�t know a great deal about printing costs, but judged that the printing of 3,000 copies of such a paper would total at least half the advertising revenue. He frowned. Would a man publish a trade journal with so small a margin of profit?

An attendant behind the desk interrupted his thoughts. �Anything I can do for you?�

�Why, yes, I was wondering if you have any back numbers of the Sugar Beet Review?�

�How far back?�

�As far back as the magazine goes � sixteen years.�

�That�s pretty far back,� said the attendant; �we usually only keep them that long for the important magazines.�

�Sugar Beet Review isn�t considered an important journal? I�m just curious to know how it rates with other trade journals.�

�It doesn�t. It�s one of the cats and dogs. The important trade journals are Traffic World, Hardware Age, Progressive Grocer, and magazines like that.�

�How does Business Journals, Incorporated, rate as a trade journal publisher?�

�Never heard of them; who are they?�

�Skating Rink, Creep & Crawl, Turkey Talk��

�Oh, that outfit!� The attendant made a grimace that was eloquent enough? Then he went off to check up on Sugar Beet Review. He returned after almost five minutes.

�Strangely enough,� he said, �we have bound volumes of the really old issues, but none between two and eight years ago. I�m having the old ones sent down. It�ll take a few minutes.�

Sargent whiled away the time looking up Chapman�s journals in the Standard Rate & Data Service. He discovered that Turkey Talk had a guaranteed circulation of 3,000. Oddly enough, the same circulation figure was given for Creep & Crawl, The Skating Rink and The Slot Machine. He wondered if 3,000 was a figure used by trade journal publishers in lieu of actual figures that might be much lower.

A boy came up panting under a double armload of bound volumes. �Here�re your copies of Sugar Beet Review,� said the librarian.

Sargent took the books to a table and opened up Volume 1. It was dated June, 1925. The masthead gave the publisher as the Sugar Beet Publishing Company, Sebewaing, Michigan. The editor�s name was Julian Herlands. The magazine was a poorly printed 16-page affair, with but four pages of advertising.

In the second issue it picked up two and a half pages of advertising and jumped to twelve pages in the third issue. At this time the total number of pages also increased to twenty-four.

It remained this size for the remainder of Volume 1, and halfway through Volume 2 when the magazine went up to thirty-two pages and carried seventeen pages of advertising. The masthead, in addition to the editor�s name, now carried the name of Leroy Somers as advertising manager and the publishing address was changed to Bay City, Michigan.

Leroy Somers must have been a good advertising man, for the magazine showed a steady gain in advertising until the summer of 1929 when it reached a peak of 68 pages of advertising. The magazine now contained 128 pages and was a handsome printed job.

By this time the staff was greatly augmented. Leroy Somers had been promoted to publisher. Herlands was still editor, but a man named Fenwick was managing editor and there were two associate editors named Billingsly and Hogate. And a new star had appeared as advertising manager. His name was Benj. O. Chapman!

The magazine held its own for three issues with Benj. O. Chapman as advertising manager, but in the fourth Chapman dropped the �j� from Benj. and the advertising took a nose dive to a paltry 47 pages of advertising. Of course, this was in the fall of 1929 and the stock market crash may have had something to do with that. A month later the name of Hogate was dropped as associate editor. Fenwick went in February, 1930, and Billingsly was promoted to the post of managing editor. The associate editorships remained vacant. In this month the magazine was a scanty 48-page issue, with only nineteen of those pages containing advertising.

It had twenty pages of advertising in May and twenty-two in June. The boys were fighting hard. But the forces of the depression were too strong. In August came the crackup. Leroy Somers and. Julian Herlands went! The Sugar Beet Publishing Company was dissolved and replaced by the Billingsly-Chapman Publishing Company. The masthead now carried the names of Robert Billingsly as president and editor and Ben O. Chapman, vice-president and advertising manager. Also the publishing office was moved to Duluth, Minnesota.

An editorial told of the reorganization and complained bitterly of the competition of the Cuban and Philippine cane sugar. There was a whining note to it that suggested the hand of the advertising manager had written the editorial instead of the editor.

The new organization, with its trimmed overhead, ran along a little better for five or six months, picking up a few pages of advertising. But in the early part of 1931 the bottom seemed to fall out of the sugar beet market � at least the sugar beet advertising, for it plummeted to an appalling eight pages in one issue. It carried that amount for two more issues, then dipped to seven.

Holding his breath in anticipation, Sargent turned to the masthead of the next issue � June, 1931. It had happened! Billingsly was gone. Ben O. Chapman was editor and publisher of the Sugar Beet Review and the name of the publishing company had been changed to Chapman Publishing Company.

Coincidentally, the advertising leaped to fourteen pages, exactly doubling the previous issue. Without being aware that he did it, Frank Sargent let out a sigh of relief and drew a deep breath of anticipation. Ben Chapman had written a sizzler of an editorial, in which he blasted the United States Congress, Cuba, and the Philippines. He insisted that the United States should cast adrift the Philippines. Let Japan take them if she would. In the next paragraph he advocated the annexation of Cuba, declaring that it was necessary to the defense of the United States.

Chapman remained publisher and editor for four issues and the magazine skyrocketed until it was again 96 pages with 54 of them advertising. Ben O. Chapman now relinquished the editorial post to a man named Smythe. Two months later the editor�s name was Burton and a month after that Mathews. Mathews remained for four long months and was then replaced by Carter, who lasted three months. Dumont assumed the editorial reins for two issues, to be replaced by Erlinger. With Erlinger, Chapman became fed up with male editors and took on Ruth K. Reese who must have been, a whiz of an editor, for she remained on the job for nine consecutive issues. Then Chapman went back to men and Frank Sargent gave up trying to follow the different names.

He counted the advertising, however, and discovered that Chapman was doing very well indeed for depression years. In the summer of 1933 the magazine was almost as thick as a mail-order catalogue and carried in excess of eighty pages of advertising. Chapman was now blasting the NRA in his editorials.

Sargent skipped two or three issues, then noted that the magazine was again becoming thinner. He counted an issue and found that it contained 57 pages of advertising.

An editorial decried the Versailles Treaty and demanded that the United States collect the European war debts at the point of the navy�s 16-inch guns. Ben Chapman volunteered his own services to take over Cuba.

The December, 1933, issue carried only twenty-one pages of advertising and Chapman declared that the Brain Trust was ruining the country. The only thing that would save it was the immediate annexation of Cuba and the collection of the war debts.

In June, 1934, Chapman gave the Philippines to Japan and included Mexico in his annexation filibuster. The magazine carried thirteen pages of advertising and a man named Wagonholtz was the managing editor.

The next month Chapman brought the war home and published a scathing denunciation of the domestic sugar beet industry because it would not support its own trade journal. Ferdinand Hooper was the editor this month.

In August and September Chapman went back to the Caribbean, with a side excursion to Washington where he proposed a ten-cent a pound tariff on cane sugar. He gave Mexico back to the Mexicans, as unworthy of this country�s time and trouble. He put out a feeler, however, for Bermuda, Barbados and Jamaica, which he expanded in October to an outright demand, as part payment of the war debts. The October issue showed a nice improvement in advertising and November looked like old times, with 34 pages of advertising. It held that many through December and January of 1935 and then Sargent received a shock.

Chapman was gone! He had sold the magazine to Louis J. Suttles. The jingoistic Chapman who had fought cane sugar and Cuba, the Philippines and Great Britain, France and the Versailles Treaty... and countless reluctant advertisers... had given up the battle.

Louis Suttles had bought the magazine in January of 1934 and was still the owner. Sargent closed the last bound volume and returned the entire stack to the librarian�s desk. He saw with a start that it was four-thirty in the afternoon. He had spent hours with the Sugar Beet Review and its Horatio Algerish hero, Ben O. Chapman.

He left the Crerar Library and after standing on the corner of Michigan and Randolph for a few minutes, began walking slowly southward. At Madison he turned west and plodded through throngs of workers homeward bound. He crossed the river and approached Canal Street and the huge Northwestern Depot. Even though his footsteps had carried him here, he looked at the building with a start.

Then he entered. At the information desk they informed him that the train for Duluth would leave at five-thirty and reach the northern city at nine in the morning. The fare, including Pullman, was fourteen dollars.

Sargent was on the train when it pulled out of the depot. His only baggage was a small parcel containing a shirt, a change of linen, a toothbrush and a cheap razor that he had purchased in the station.

Frank Sargent�s first sight of Duluth was not an inspiring one. He stepped down from the train and looked out on a maze of railroad tracks. Leaving the depot, he crossed the tracks and approached the Mesabe Depot a block away. He whistled as he regarded the steep hill ahead of him. Cars were climbing it in low gear, but he expected any moment that one or two would be unable to make it and roll back.

He leaned forward and began climbing. Reaching Superior Street he paused to catch his breath, then was reminded that this was the street on which the offices of the Sugar Beet Review were located.

He found the building only two blocks to the east; they were on the second floor of a small building which contained a pawnshop on the street floor.

The office consisted of one room. It contained a desk, a steel filing cabinet and a couple of chairs. A discouraged-looking man sat behind the desk reading a copy of The Beehive.

�Sorry,� he said, �I�m not buying a thing today.�

�Neither am I,� Sargent replied. �You�re Mr. Suttles, the publisher of Sugar Beet Review?�

�That depends. If it�s a summons, the publisher has left town. If it�s good news, like maybe an ad or even a subscription, then my name is Suttles.�

�To cut a long story short,� said Sargent, �my name is Frank Sargent and I was until recently an employee of Ben O. Chapman��

That was as much as he could get out. The mention of Chapman�s name produced the usual results. Suttles pushed back his chair, his face darkened and he raised a quivering hand.

�Get the hell out of here!�

Sargent held his ground. �I�m an ex-employee of Chapman�s.�

Suttles relaxed. �Eh? Well, that�s better. But I wish it had been Chapman himself who�d stuck his nose in here. I�d have punched his face, then thrown him down the stairs.�

�What�d he do to you?�

�He sold me Sugar Beet Review, the dirty crook.�

�Is that all?�

�All? I�ve been slowly starving to death ever since I took over the magazine, because Chapman had padded it. It averaged twenty pages of advertising when I bought it. Fifteen of those pages were sold for from five to fifteen dollars a page. I didn�t find that out until after I�d paid Chapman five thousand dollars.�

Sargent whistled in surprise. �But didn�t you investigate before you bought?�

�I thought you knew Chapman, the slimy ghoul. He�d doctored up the books. I sued him, yes, but he stalled and stalled the suit until I couldn�t keep it up and accepted five hundred dollars in full settlement. I�d already spent three times that in attorney and court fees. But why should I tell you all of this?�

�Because I came all the way to Duluth to hear it.�

�Huh?�

Sargent nodded. �Haven�t you been reading about Chapman in the papers this past week?�

�No. What happened? Did he die? I hope so.�

�No such luck. But his partner was murdered. And an exeditor.�

�Yumpin� Yohnny Yohnson! Did Chapman knock them off?�

�The police don�t know. But Chapman is definitely one of the suspects.�

�And you � I thought you said you were an ex-employee?�

�That�s right. I�m also one of the murder suspects. If you�ve got a few minutes I�d like to tell you about it.�

�If it�s something bad about Chapman I�ve got all day.�

Sargent seated himself on a rickety chair and gave Suttles a brief history of l�affaire Ben Chapman. He wound up by saying, �The simplest thing for me would have been just to put Chapman out of my mind and go back to my old work, but the business got under my skin. Especially the shooting of poor Ernest Pelkey. I�m convinced that he saved my life at the expense of his own and I feel that I ought to bring his murderer to justice.�

�But why come up here? Chapman hasn�t lived in Duluth in almost seven years.�

�Because I believe that whatever�s happened in Chicago this past week is somehow tied up with Chapman�s past life. I want to see if I can find the thread.�

Suttles shook his head. �Then you�ll have to look elsewhere. I know nothing about Chapman�s personal life. I worked on a newspaper here and one day read a �Business Opportunities� ad. I had a little money and wanted to strike out on my own. A trade journal sounded interesting to me and I bought it. I didn�t buy Chapman�s life story with the magazine. I�d never met the man before and haven�t seen him since he blew out of Duluth, with my five thousand dollars.�

Sargent was disappointed. �But what about his former associates?�

�His editors? I understand they�ve formed an unofficial club, the sole purpose of which is to get together and curse Chapman.�

�Seriously?�

�No, but I run into one of them every now and then. I guess the guy had fifteen or twenty different editors working for him at one time or another. I doubt if any of them lasted long enough, however, to learn anything about Chapman.�

Sargent nodded thoughtfully. �What about his wife?�

Suttles was surprised. �Chapman�s wife? I didn�t know he was even married.�

�He was, but it must have been before your time. Mmm, I wonder if you know anything about his business partner before Chapman became sole owner of the magazine?�

�Why, yes,� said Suttles. �I�ve seen his name in old issues and a couple of years ago I met him... fellow named Billingsly.�

�Ah!� said Sargent. �He still lives here in Duluth?�

�As far as I know. He was a floorwalker or something in the Brick Block Department Store.�

�What about Leroy Somers?�

�Never met him. He was on Sugar Beet Review when the magazine was published in Michigan.�

�Yes, that�s right. I�d forgotten. Well, thanks, Mr. Suttles. I�ll see if I can talk to Billingsly.�

�Do that. And will you do me a favor? If you get something you think�ll cause Chapman some trouble will you tell me about it? It�d make me feel awfully good.�

Sargent couldn�t restrain a grin. �Yes, and I hope it causes him some real trouble.�

The Brick Block Department Store wasn�t hard to find. It was just a block west on Superior. It Was a seven-story building, built entirely of brick, except for the windows, and there the motif had been continued as far as possible, with glass bricks.

The store was crowded and Sargent had some difficulty in even finding someone with any authority. He finally located a section manager.

�Billingsly? Never heard of him.�

�He�s a floorwalker here, or was.�

�We don�t have floorwalkers; they�re section managers. That�s what I am, but I never heard of this Billingsly. Is it important?�

�Quite.�

�Then I suggest you go up to the second floor and talk to Campbell. He�s been with the store a good many years. I�m a comparative newcomer myself.�

Campbell was a stout, pompadoured man with thick-lensed glasses. �Billingsly? Why do you want him?�

�A personal matter. Is he still employed here?�

�No, as a matter of fact, he only lasted a month. That must have been three or four years ago.�

�Two,� Sargent corrected.

�Then you know more about him than I do,� Campbell retorted stiffly.

�Oh, no. Someone who knew him said he�d run into him a couple of years ago. His memory may have been faulty.�

�It is at least three years since Billingsly was employed here. Yes, I�m sure of it, for I had just bought my �thirty-eight car. They came out in the fall of �thirty-seven. I�d had it only a month when the generator burned out. Late October.�

�The car had something to do with Billingsly?�

�Billingsly put in the new generator. After he was dismissed here, he went to work for this motor sales agency � in the repair department. Come to think of it he didn�t last long there either, for when I went in with the carburetor trouble he was no longer there. That was around Christmas.�

�What was the name of the agency?�

�Freed�s, over on Second, East.�

�Thank you, Mr. Campbell,� said Sargent.

He left the Brick Block store and inquired of a traffic policeman the directions for reaching Second Street, East. He walked to the Freed Motor Sales in a few minutes.

They didn�t remember Billingsly in the repair department, but Mr. Freed, himself, recalled him vaguely. �The dreamy fella, yeah. He didn�t like to get his hands dirty. I had to let him go.�

�You don�t know where he is now?�

�Naw, never saw him again. Maybe he left town. You looked in the phone book, didn�t you?�

Sargent winced. He�d overlooked the obvious. �No,� he said, �I didn�t.�

Freed produced the directory and himself looked over the B�s. �Too bad,� he said. �There isn�t any Billingsly listed. Either he hasn�t got a phone or he�s left town.�

Sargent frowned. �You wouldn�t have his address in your files, would you?�

�Naw... maybe, I would, at that.�

He went to a filing cabinet and rummaged about for a few minutes. Suddenly he exclaimed and brought out a card. �Here it is, Robert Billingsly � shucks, he didn�t live in Duluth; he lived in Cloquet. Gosh, he must have needed a job bad to drive that back and forth every day. I didn�t realize.�

�How far is Cloquet from Duluth?�

�You never heard of Cloquet? Say, where�ve you been?�

�Chicago. I just came to Duluth today.�

Freed pursed up his lips. �You came all the way here to look up Billingsly?�

�Yes. I�m anxious to locate him.�

�You�re not a bill collector, are you?�

�No. Mmm, investigator, would be a better name.�

�Detective?�

�Not exactly. I merely want to get some information from Billingsly. About a man he knew up here.�

�Who�s that?�

�Chapman. Ben O. Chap��

�Jeez!� cried Freed. �Why didn�t you say so? Why, dammit, I can tell you things about that no-good that�d curl your ears. Didn�t I sell Chapman a secondhand car and let him talk me into financing it myself? Didn�t want a finance company to get his name on their books; hurt his credit. Then he didn�t make the payments and it cost me more to repossess the car than it was worth, in addition to him practically wrecking the thing. If it hadn�t been for his wife, I�d have...�

�You knew his wife?� Sargent asked quickly.

�Ruth Reese? Hell, yes. She went to school with my sister-in-law. At the University.�

Ruth Reese had been the editor for nine issues of Sugar Beet Review.

�Where is Mrs. Chapman now?�

Freed shook his head. �I haven�t seen her since she and Chapman bust up.�

�How long ago is that?�

�Oh, they were only married a couple or three months. My sister-in-law�d know.�

�Where can I see your sister-in-law?�

�That�s the hell of it, she�s teaching school up in the country.�

Sargent groaned. �Far from Duluth?�

� �Bout forty miles or so. Place called Alborn. Don�t think it�s really a town. Least I never saw a town there. Just a station on the Mesabe that you pass going up to pick blueberries in the muskeg. Nearer the Iron Range than here. You figure on running up there?�

�Yes. What is your sister-in-law�s name?�

�Bessie... I mean Elizabeth Timmons.�

Sargent plodded back to Superior Street, then descended the hill to the Mesabe Depot.

�Better run,� the ticket agent told him as he puched a ticket for Alborn, �morning train leaves in about two minutes.�

Sargent made it and a few minutes later sat by a window, looking at the drab west end section of Duluth. The train was a local and stopped every few miles at a railroad station, which, together with a general store, usually constituted the �town.�

It took almost an hour and a half to travel the forty miles to Alborn, which turned out to be as Freed, the motorcar man, had guessed, merely a station and a few buildings. But on the station platform Sargent got a lucky break.

The station agent knew Miss Timmons. �The Baker schoolhouse. You can�t walk there, though. It�s more than five miles. Say... Sammy!�

A farmer wearing faded, patched overalls ambled over. �Sammy,� said the station agent, �this man wants to go out to the Baker schoolhouse. S�pose you could drop him off?�

�Don�t see any reason why not, since I�m goin� to pass right there in a few minutes. Just goin� to pick up a sack of middlings at the store. Mind waiting, stranger?�

�Not at all. Could I help you with the middlings?�

�Shucks, no. On�y one sack.�

Sargent followed the farmer to the weather-beaten general store and waited while the man bought the sack of middlings, which turned out to be a sack so large that Sargent would have had trouble even lifting it. But the farmer brought it out on his shoulder and walked easily to a battered flivver without a top. He dumped the sack in the back of the car, then said cheerfully:

�Climb in, mister, and we�ll be off.�

A moment later they were roaring down a narrow graveled road at all of thirty-two miles an hour.

�Yep,� said the driver of the car, �sure am glad to see you. Folks been wonderin� �bout Bessie.�

�How come?�

The farmer winked hugely. � �S all right, mister. We think a lot of Bessie around here. We only hope you don�t get married too soon.�

�Sorry to disappoint you,� Sargent chuckled, �but I never met Miss Timmons. In fact, I�d rather expected an older woman.�

�Bessie�s no young girl. She�s twenty-eight, twenty-nine. You ain�t no more�n that. Two-three fellas around here been makin� eyes at Bessie, but she can�t see them... That�s the school up there.�

Sargent looked at the one-room frame shack on the right side of the road and whistled softly. He hadn�t known that such schools still existed.

�Thanks for the lift,� He said to the farmer as he climbed out of the ancient automobile.

�No trouble �tall. My place is right beyond there. You�ll be wantin� to go back to town, maybe. Just ring the bell once and I�ll come arunnin� with the car.�

Gratefully, Sargent accepted the generous offer. Then he walked toward the little schoolhouse. He hesitated a moment before opening the door. When he finally did open it he looked into a room about twenty by forty in which there were perhaps thirty or thirty-five pupils ranging in age from five or six to about sixteen.

A rather plump young woman with reddish-brown hair was at the front of the room. She caught sight of Sargent and came toward him between a couple of rows of seats.

�Sorry to interrupt your classes,� Sargent apologized, �but I�ve come all the way from Duluth to ask you a few questions. As a matter of fact, I�ve come all the way from Chicago, but in Duluth Mr. Freed mentioned your name...�

�Otto Freed? Well! I don�t know what I could tell you that is important enough for you to come all this way.�

�It�s about Mrs. Ben O. Chapman. You know her as Ruth Reese, I believe.�

A pained expression flitted across the schoolteacher�s face. Then she said, �Would you mind stepping outside? We can talk better there.�

Outside the school, Bessie Timmons faced Sargent. �What about Ruth? Is she...?�

�I don�t know. I don�t know anything about her. I thought you could tell me. By the way, my name is Frank Sargent.�

She acknowledged the introduction with a nod. �What about Ruth?� she asked, again.

�I want to find her.�

�Why?�

�Did you ever meet Ben Chapman?�

�Once. Only once.�

�What did you think of him?�

�Well,� said Bessie Timmons, �he shook hands with me when I was introduced to him by Ruth. It was just like taking a dead herring in your hand. That gives you an idea of what I thought about Ben Chapman.�

�Good,� said Sargent. �Then we�re on common ground. I was until recently an employee of Chapman�s. Some things he did have caused me to investigate his past history. That�s why I want to contact Mrs. Chapman.�

�She doesn�t use that name any more. She divorced him years ago and from what she once told me I doubt if Ruth even wants to hear the name Chapman again. Their marriage wasn�t a success, you know.�

�I gathered that. She worked for him before their marriage, didn�t she?�

�The less said about that the better. What�s your reason behind all this?�

�Frankly, Miss Timmons, Ben Chapman is suspected of murder in Chicago. His business partner as well as a former employee were brutally murdered.�

�I�d believe anything of Chapman!� cried Bessie Timmons. �The things he did to Ruth!�

�I�m not at all sure Chapman�s responsible for the murders. But he may be. However, I have reason to believe that the motive goes back to his earlier history � his life in Duluth. And that�s why I want to talk to Ruth... Ruth Reese.�

The schoolteacher�s eyes clouded. �Ruth was my closest friend for years, Mr. Sargent. What... what makes you think she had anything to do with... with what happened?�

�Why, I don�t think she really had. But I think she can tell me some things about Chapman that might give me a clue as to what has happened this last week.�

�What?�

�I don�t know.�

Miss Timmons frowned. �That�s all pretty vague.�

�Of course it is. It�s only by sifting all available information that you can perhaps find a kernel of fact that will germinate into a stalk of truth.�

�But I don�t know where Ruth is,� said the schoolteacher. �I haven�t heard from her in months. She may have moved away. In fact, I�m pretty sure she did. She talked about it.�

�Where was she living when you heard from her last?�

�In Hibbing. She had an interior decorating shop there. But she wrote me that business wasn�t good. Hibbing is an iron town, you know. Ironworkers aren�t exactly the sort who go in for interior decorating. Still Ruth thought she could make a go of it. She�s very versatile, you know.�

The train got into Chicago ten minutes late, but before twelve-thirty Sargent was approaching the desk of the Jameson Hotel.

�Miss Ruth Reese,� he said.

�Use the house phone, please.�

Sargent did and after a moment was told, �Miss Reese is not registered.�

Sargent groaned. Few people remained eight months at a hotel. But they had their mail forwarded. �Did she leave a forwarding address?� he asked.

�Ask at the mail desk.�

Sargent went to the mail desk. �Miss Ruth Reese who was registered here eight months ago; did she leave a forwarding address?�

The girl went to a card file and skimmed through the cards. After a moment she stopped at one and Sargent inhaled softly.

�Yes,� the girl said, �she did.�

�What is it?�

�I�m sorry, but we�re not allowed to give out addresses.�

�But how can I reach her?� Sargent exploded.

�Write a letter and we�ll be glad to forward it.�

Sargent turned away from the desk, quivering from frustration. There it was on a card. He could almost have reached over the desk and snatched the card from the mail clerk�s hand. So near...

He collided with a bellboy and had to grab the boy�s arm to steady him. Then he suddenly pulled him to one side. �Look, buddy,� he said, �you want to earn a dollar?�

�I got a dollar,� the bellboy cracked.

�Have you got five dollars?� he cried in desperation.

�Yeah. You want to match for five?�

�No, but I�ll give you five dollars for a bit of information. The forwarding address of someone who stayed here. They won�t give it to me at the desk.�

�Slip me the fin,� said the boy. �It�s a cinch.�

Sargent crumpled a five-dollar bill and thrust it into the greedy palm of the bellboy.

�Stay right here,� said the boy. �Don�t go away. What�s the guy�s name?�

�It�s a girl. Ruth Reese. R, double e, s-e.�

�A head, huh? Hang on.�

Sargent watched the boy walk behind the mail desk and pull out the card file. It was as simple as that!

The boy came back. �Post-office box twenty-six-twenty-nine,� he said.

�Post-office box! Are you sure?�

�You want me to get the card?�

�No, I�ll take your word for it.�

�Write her a letter,� suggested the boy.

And that was absolutely the end of the trail. Ruth Reese had deliberately covered it up. You couldn�t trace anyone through a post-office box. Postal employees never gave out information.

Yet in his despair, Sargent walked to the main post office, entering by the Dearborn Street entrance. He went into the big room and looked at the thousands of locked boxes and knew the last word in hopelessness. He found Box 2629, a dot in a solid wall of boxes.

Yes, he could stand here from morning to night and wait for someone to open Box 2629 � but even then he couldn�t be sure. He couldn�t stand for hours on end right in front of the box. If a boxholder of any one of the hundred adjoining boxes wanted to open his box, Sargent would have to step aside and the person�s body would block fifty boxes from view. Sargent didn�t know Ruth Reese by sight. He couldn�t just stand here and try to spot her. For that matter she might even have discontinued her box.

He left the post office and walked aimlessly up Adams to Clark Street. Looking at a restaurant he realized that he was hungry; he went inside and ordered a sirloin steak. It braced him considerably and on coming out of the restaurant he looked southward on Clark. Three minutes� walk and he could be at the offices of Business Journals, Incorporated. There was only one person there with whom he would have liked to talk � Jim Robertson. Grinning crookedly he crossed to a cigar store, entered a booth, and dialed the number of Business Journals.

When Mildred O�Kelly answered, he made his voice sound gruff: �Mr. Robertson, please.�

�Just a mo�,� cooed Mildred.

Then Jim Robertson�s voice said crisply, �Robertson talking.�

�This is Frank Sargent.�

�For the love of Seneca!� gasped Robertson. �Where�ve you been the last two days?�

�Ben fired me; didn�t you know?�

�Hell, no! He�s been crying for you ever since you walked out the day before yesterday. He acts like you were his best friend. You shouldn�t take Ben�s firing seriously. If you still want this job � although God knows why � better hustle down here.�

�I�m just a couple of blocks away, but first � how do I stand otherwise?�

�How do you mean?�

�I dodged the police shadow.�

�Oh, that! Fanning sniffed around here most of yesterday, but he hasn�t shown his nose today. You�re all right there, except maybe for going down to the inquest. I got a summons yesterday. It�s next week.�

�I guess I can stand that. I�ll see you in a few minutes, Jim.�

So Frank Sargent strolled casually into the offices of Business Journals some five minutes later. Jim Robertson had evidently tipped off Mildred O�Kelly, for she merely nodded pleasantly to him.

He went into his cubicle and it smelled of La Desiree scent. A wisp of a handkerchief was on his desk. So was a stack of mail, all the envelopes slit open neatly.

He sat down and grinned crookedly. Jim Robertson came to the door of his office, winked and placed a finger to his lips, then went off.

A moment later Andy Lawrence popped in. He attempted to be casual, but his theatrical voice could not be hushed.

�Frankie, old man,� he boomed, �it�s good to see you back.�

Ben O. Chapman�s office door was jerked open and Ben called curtly, �Sargent, I want to talk to you.�

Sargent drew a deep breath and went into the publisher�s office. Chapman had resumed his seat and waved the letter opener.

�A fine time you picked to be temperamental,� he whined. �I thought you were one man I could trust. But, no, you�re like all the others. All in league against me. And that woman has the skids all greased for me. I can tell. She looks like a cat who�s got into an aviary.�

Chapman shot a questioning look at Sargent. Evidently he was waiting for an excuse from Sargent, but the latter gave none. So Chapman continued:

�Well, the commission houses are licked. That emptyheaded, doll-faced, dizzy blonde has signed up five advertisers for page space and she�s out again today.�

�Good for her,� Sargent finally said.

Then Chapman pounced on him. �But what about you? What am I paying you for? What have you done? I mean, what have you found out for me?�

�About what?�

�You know what I mean: Pelkey.�

�I found Pelkey for you.�

�The devil with Pelkey! I want that stock certificate he had. His wife�s got it, I�ll bet. I want you to buy it from her. Pay any price you have to... but get it. I need it by ten o�clock tomorrow morning. Understand?�

�Suppose Mrs. Pelkey hasn�t got it? Or won�t sell?�

�She�s got to sell. Offer her five hundred dollars, if necessary. Seven hundred and fifty if you have to.�

�Is that the highest you�ll go?�

�No, of course not. I�ll lay my cards on the table. If Martha Sligo lays down fifty shares of stock tomorrow and I can produce only forty-nine, I�m out of Business Journals. A lifetime�s hard work gone up in smoke.�

�Only seven years.�

�Eh?�

�Seven years ago you still had the Sugar Beet Review, remember?�

�Of course I remember,� Chapman said peevishly. �Greatest trade journal in the country. I made it myself. Then the government robbed me of it.�

�The government?�

�They wouldn�t put a decent tariff on Cuban sugar. They let the Filipinos flood our market with duty-free sugar. What chance did the sugar beet industry have?�

�But Sugar Beet Review is still running, isn�t it?�

�Not running � staggering. I never keep a sick magazine. I sold it just like I sold a dozen others. Would have sold Turkey Talk if I hadn�t licked the commission houses. Which reminds me, I want you to go after the remedy advertising. Look through your chicken papers, there�s page after page of the stuff. Turkeys get sick, too.�

Sargent nodded and started to go, but Chapman called him back. �Wait a minute. I want that share of stock. You can offer up to two thousand for it.�

�What about the share Hanson Hill had?�

�That woman�s got that. She must have it, or she wouldn�t act like a cluck who�s just hatched out a batch of chicks.�

�Are you sure she�s got it?�

�You know something, Sargent? Speak, man!�

�Hanson Hill told me he sold the stock to someone in this office.�

�You said that before � wait a minute; you figure it wasn�t Sligo?�

�No.�

�Then who?� cried Chapman hoarsely.

�Hill wouldn�t tell.�

Chapman started gnawing his fingernails. He shot an apprehensive glance at the telephone, chewed his nails a bit more, then finally reached for the phone.

�Get me Hanson Hill at Turkey Tracks,� he whined.

Sargent whistled softly and Chapman gave him an angry look. Then he coughed and spoke into the phone. �Hill, this is Ben O. Chapman.� He cringed and Sargent heard the phone crackle. Then Chapman began blustering. �We can settle that some other time, Hill. I want to offer you some money... folding money... a lot of it. Uh�� he cleared his throat painfully � �a hundred dollars. What?�

The phone crackled some more and Chapman grew red in the face. He listened for a long moment, then whined, �All right, Hill, you�ve got it off your chest. Now, let me talk. I�ll buy your rag from you. Yes, I�ll give you five hundred dollars... Don�t be absurd. Forget that I mentioned it... No, I won�t pay a thousand. It isn�t worth it. You haven�t got anything to sell... Seven-fifty? It�s a deal, Hill, on one condition.� Chapman looked triumphantly over the phone at Sargent. �That you tell me to whom you sold that share of stock Dan Sligo gave you... What?� The red faded from Chapman�s face and his eyes bulged. Then he hung up the phone receiver without another word.

He stared at Frank Sargent.

�I don�t understand,� he muttered.

�Who was it?�

�Lew Thayer.�

�That�s who I thought.�

�What?�

The phone on Chapman�s desk rang and he scooped it up. �What? I wouldn�t give you a dime, you low-down thief! Keep your dirty rag and I hope you choke on it.�

He slammed the receiver on the hook. �Never saw such a fool,� he snorted.

�Hill?�

�Yes. He thought I was serious when I offered him seven hundred and fifty dollars for his two-bit turkey paper.�

�I�ll be damned!� breathed Sargent.

�What�s that?� Chapman snapped. �What would a man as stupid as Hanson Hill do with seven hundred and fifty dollars? Why should I pay him for his paper when he can�t keep it going, anyway? This is going to cost me too much as it is... and I can�t understand it!�

The phone on Chapman�s desk rang again. He waved at it impatiently, then caught it up and snapped, �I�m busy, Mildred!... Who...?� Ben Chapman suddenly caught his breath, choked and coughed.

�Get out!� he yelled hoarsely at Frank Sargent.

Startled, Sargent went back to his own office. He started opening the Turkey Talk mail. Five minutes passed, then Jim Robertson slipped noiselessly into his office.

�Something�s up,� he whispered. �Chapman�s begging for his life on the phone. A woman... named Ruth.�

�Ruth!� gasped Sargent. �That�s his wife! His ex-wife.�

�How do you know?�

�I spent all of yesterday up in Duluth and the Iron Range, checking up on Chapman�s past history.�

�My God!� Jim Robertson blinked at Sargent, then turned and streaked back to his office, to glue his ear again to the thin panels that separated his office from Chapman�s. But he was evidently too late, for Chapman opened his door and called in a quavering voice:

�Sargent!�

Sargent returned to Chapman�s office. His employer was shaking and his face was a pasty gray-green.

�I�ve just had a terrible shock, Sargent,� he said. �A... a person, the deadliest enemy I�ve got in the world, just telephoned. I didn�t dream. She... I mean he... has Hanson Hill�s share of stock. Sh-he wants twenty thousand dollars for it. And I�ve only got until eleven in the morning!�

�So?�

�I haven�t got twenty thousand,� Chapman moaned. �I�m a ruined man. Thayer, the dirty dog, did this to me. He found my wi � this person � and gave her the stock to get revenge on me. And she�ll do it.�

�You mean your wife?� Sargent asked bluntly.

Chapman looked up startled. �How do you know?�

�You�ve been telling me. She. What other woman would you he afraid of?�

�She�ll nail me to the cross.�

�What�d you do to her?�

�What did I do to her?� Chapman groaned. �I picked her out of the gutter � practically. She was only a stenographer, fresh out of school. I made her an editor... married her... and then she walked out on me. I didn�t do a thing to her. And she�s hated me all these years! She�s here in Chicago.�

�Where?�

�I don�t know. She wouldn�t tell. She going to telephone at eleven in the morning and if I don�t give her the money, she�ll give the stock to Martha Sligo. Unless... I�ll be thrown out of my own business. Unless...� Chapman caught up his letter opener and pointed it at Sargent.

�...unless I get that stock of Pelkey�s. I need that more than ever now. I can get a draw at least, if I have that. Get it, Sargent. What are you waiting for?�

Sargent came forward and placed both of his palms on Chapman�s desk. He leaned forward, �Listen, Ben,� he said, �Ernest Pelkey lost his life saving mine. I�m going to get the man who killed him.�

Chapman gave Sargent a strange look. �All right, go ahead.�

�I will. That�s why I�m going to do this for you. Because I believe it�ll bring out Pelkey�s killer.�

�What do you mean?� Chapman was startled. �You mean... my wife?�

�I don�t think so. But someone she knows.�

�Thayer!�

�I don�t know. But I�m going to find out. I need some money. Give me a hundred dollars.�

�A hundred dollars. You think I�m made of money?� Chapman started whining, then suddenly broke off and whipped out a billfold. He skimmed out five twenty-dollar bills. �Get the stock, Sargent. If you save me, I�ll give you a raise. A ten-dollar raise. And I�ll make you a partner in this business.�

�I�ll do without the partnership,� Sargent said. �There seems to be a bounty on partners in this firm. But I�ll get your stock by eleven o�clock tomorrow.�

�Before then!� Chapman cried. �I won�t be able to sleep a wink. Call me!�

Sargent left the office. Waiting for the elevator was Grosvenor Black.

�Sargent!� the horse-playing editor exclaimed. �I thought you�d been fired.�

�Just one of Benny�s jokes,� Sargent replied. �What�s good today?�

Black looked around furtively. �Whipsaw in the fifth at Belmont. I�m just sneaking out to lay a bet on him. He�ll be eight to one at least.�

�Whipsaw,� Sargent said musingly. �That�s what I�ve been getting ever since I came into this place. A whipsawing.�

�A hunch!� cried Black. �That�s a hunch. My God, you can�t pass up a hunch like that. Slip me a sawbuck and I�ll lay it for you.�

�Are you serious?�

�Of course. Every horse player plays hunches and that�s a beauty. I tell you, you can�t lose. I was sure before, but now I�m positive. Whipsaw, my darling!�

Sargent had forty-some dollars of his own money left from his excursion to Minnesota. He also had the hundred dollars he had just obtained from Ben Chapman. He pulled out a handful of bills and peeled off a twenty.

Black�s eyes bulged as he saw the roll. �You holding down lettuce like that?�

Sargent added another twenty and a ten. �Put this fifty on Whipsaw. If he doesn�t win�well, I�m a gone goose anyway. A little more whipsawing won�t hurt me.�

�Fifty smackers�on the nose?� There was respect in Grosvenor Black�s tone.

Down on the street they parted, Black hurrying toward Wells Street, where he no doubt had a poolroom all ready to take his bets. Sargent walked northward on Clark, to Randolph.

There he climbed the stairs to the offices of the Decker Detective Agency.

Wilting was sprawled on the bench behind the door. Sargent wondered if he had got up from it since the other day. Sargent gave him a scornful glance and turned to the redheaded receptionist. �Is Mr. Decker still on that big case?�

�Uh-huh, why?�

�Because I wanted to hire him to do some work. I guess I�ll have to go elsewhere.�

�Wait a minute. Is that straight or are you trying to pump us again about Mr. Chapman?�

�I don�t want to know anything about Chapman.�

Wilting stirred and opened one eye up. � �S all right, now, we ain�t working for Chappie any more. What�s it you want?�

�A shadowing job.�

�Okey-doke, let�s see your money.�

Sargent scowled at Wilting. �I think I�d better go elsewhere. Since Decker�s too busy��

�There isn�t any Mr. Decker,� the redhead said sweetly. �Mr. Wilting owns this agency.�

Sargent exclaimed, �What? Then why all�?�

�Stall,� said Wilting. �Always blame the boss something goes wrong. Twenty dollars a day for shadowing; night work, twenty-five.�

�This is a night job�and I want four men shadowed. You can�t take care of more than one��

�Sure, got an arrangement with some boys. Get them in a half hour. Who you want shadowed?�

�Some fellows from Chapman�s office. Grosvenor Black, Lew Thayer, Jim Robertson, and Andy Lawrence.�

�You got a hundred dollars to pay for this?�

Sargent pulled out the fifty that remained of Chapman�s money. �Half now and half tomorrow.�

�Deal. Which one you want me to shadow?�

�Lew Thayer, but I don�t know where he lives.�

�I do. Shadowed him for Chapman. The others I can pick up at the office. Anything special you want to know about them?�

�Everything. Where they live, who they meet, where they go.�

�Report where?�

�At the office of Business Journals. Ten o�clock in the morning. If I�m not there at ten, call every ten minutes.�

�Right.�

Wilting closed his eyes and began to breathe heavily. Sargent slammed out of the office before he lost his temper. Outside he walked slowly toward Lake Street where he climbed to the elevated platform.

Sargent couldn�t have thought of a more distasteful task than calling on Hester Pelkey, but it had to be done. Not so much because of Ben O. Chapman, but because... she might know something that would aid Sargent in bringing to justice the murderer of her husband.

He rang the doorbell of the little white Cape Cod cottage, but there was no response. He tried it again, then knocked on the door. Starting away, he caught a glimpse of a canvas sun umbrella in the back yard and went toward it.

As he approached he saw Hester Pelkey lying in a canvas chair. She half started up when she saw him but sank back with a sigh of surrender. Her eyes were red and swollen, her face taut and almost colorless.

He said, �Believe me, Mrs. Pelkey, I�m sorry to��

�All right,� she said listlessly. �What do you want?�

�I want to tell you about Ernest. He tried to save my life. The shots were fired at me.�

�What?�

�My back was toward the street; Ernest was facing me. He saw the car and threw himself against me, to shove me out of the way. He did � and was hit himself. Can you imagine how I feel about that?�

She sat up in the chair, gripping the wooden sides. �But you�re Chapman�s stooge.�

�I�m playing that game, because it covers up my real purpose. I�m going to get the person who got Ernest.�

�No!� she half whispered. �Revenge won�t bring him back.�

�But it�ll make what he did worth while. Don�t you see, Mrs. Pelkey? That�s what was the matter with Ernest. He was beaten down by Ben Chapman � and life � until he felt frustrated and small. To put it bluntly, he�d even thought he was losing you.�

�That�s not true!�

�Isn�t it?�

She looked at him in horror, then sank back into the reclining chair. �I was wrong... there was never anyone but Ernest. I know it now and it hurts that I didn�t...�

�I know � and will you help me justify Ernest?�

�Yes! Yes, I will. Perhaps... perhaps he�ll know. What do you want?�

Sargent wanted to ask her who the man had been, but she was too hurt already. He asked, instead, �What did Ernest do with that share of stock he got from Chapman?�

She looked at him half startled, half angry, and he said quickly, �That�s important, Mrs. Pelkey.�

�Why is it? I don�t believe...�

�I think Daniel Sligo was murdered for that share of stock. I think Ernest knew who did it because he knew who had the stock.�

�But you said the shots were fired at you, not Ernest.�

�They were. Oh, Ernest�s life was in danger too, but the killer wanted me first, believing that Ernest would keep quiet then... if he wasn�t arrested for the crimes and put away, because of, well...�

Hester Pelkey�s forehead became a series of little furrows. �But I don�t know, Mr. Sargent. Really, I don�t. Ernest had that share of stock until he was let out by Chapman. Then he became furious. He said he was going to use it to ruin Chapman. He came in one day with a thousand dollars in cash and said he�d done it. That was two days before Mr. Sligo...�

�Do you suppose he sold the stock to Sligo?�

�I thought so at the time. Even after Sligo was killed, I thought so. I thought Chapman had done it, to get the stock. And Ernest said that same thing.�

�I don�t think Chapman killed Sligo,� Sargent said. �I know... he�s every kind of villain, but he didn�t have the nerve for that. I don�t think so. Tell me, was Ernest friendly with Lew Thayer?�

�Of course. But...�

�Thayer bought the share from Hanson Hill for twenty-five dollars and today it turned up in the hands of the former Mrs. Ben Chapman.�

�Who?� cried Hester Pelkey.

�Ruth Reese, who was once married to Ben Chapman.�

�There is such a person, then? Ernest said that was the one thing about which Chapman would never talk.�

�She telephoned him today. And she told him a few things. When I left the office, Ben had his fingernails chewed down to his wrists and was still going strong. His ex-wife had the Indian sign on him.�

�Good! I hope she squeezes him for all he�s worth.�

�It looks like she will. She says if Ben doesn�t give her twenty thousand for that stock by eleven tomorrow, she�s going to give it to Mrs. Sligo.�

The full import of that didn�t strike Hester Pelkey for a moment, but when it did, she gasped, �So if he doesn�t get the other share he�ll be outvoted by Mrs. Sligo�s stock!�

�That�s right. Fifty to forty-nine, in which case Mrs. Sligo chucks Ben out of the business. If he can get the other share he can win a draw. He�ll have Mrs. Sligo around, but he�ll still be on deck himself.�

�Then,� said Hester Pelkey firmly, �I hope he doesn�t find the other share.�

�Actually, you don�t mean that.�

�Yes, I do.�

�No, you don�t.�

Her chin quivered a little and she had to press her lips together tightly before she could control them. Then she said lightly, �All right, perhaps not. But I was thinking... hasn�t Mrs. Sligo got Ernest�s share now? Didn�t Ernest sell it to Sligo?�

�If he did, it was stolen when Sligo was killed. Unless...�

�No. No, it wasn�t Ernest. I know that.�

�I hope you�re right. And I think you are. I�ll be going.�

�Good-by, Mr. Sargent!�

Walking away from the Cape Cod cottage, Sargent saw a tall figure coming toward him. Wincing, he tried to cross the street, but Lieutenant Fanning had already spied him.

�Sargent!� he cried.

Sargent walked toward him. �Hello. Were you following me?�

�No, this is an accidental pleasure.� Fanning grinned wolfishly. �I was just calling on Mrs. Pelkey. Going back to town?�

�Yes.�

�I�ll walk a ways with you, if you don�t mind.�

�Would it do any good if I did mind?�

�No, it�s a free country. I can walk anywhere I please, even if I am a cop. That wasn�t nice what you did to Hugo the other day.�

�I made Hugo a sporting proposition and he turned it down. What happened was his hard luck.�

�Yeah, Hugo told me. I put him back pounding a beat. Where�ve you been the last two days? Understand Chapman fired you.�

�That was the day before yesterday. I�m back with him again.�

�Nice guy, Chapman. Never a dull moment around him � I hear. By the way, I been carrying around a piece of paper for you. Just a little notice to appear at the inquest next week. For the first one. I�ll probably have another paper for the second inquest. I had them put back a few days, on account of I�m hoping to wash this case up by then. Make it easy for the coroner�s jury.�

�Who�s your candidate, lieutenant?�

�That�d be telling. Who do you guess?�

�That would be telling.�

�Wonder if we�re both thinking of the same person?�

�I won�t know unless you tell me.�

They had reached the elevated station, which here was on the ground level, but Fanning seemed reluctant to let Sargent go. �You know,� he said grudgingly, �you did some pretty fair spade work. I�ve checked over some of your things. You talked to a woman who lives next door to the Sligos�. And that rival turkey paper fellow.�

�Oh,� said Sargent. �So you think it�s Thayer!�

�Isn�t it?� Fanning asked, nervously.

�It�s quite possible. Thayer punched Chapman in the nose the other night. You had a little tussle with him yourself.�

�The Irish bum! He hasn�t got an alibi for the other afternoon, either. Says he was cockeyed at the time. I hear he�s started suit against Chapman for twelve hundred dollars� commission he claims is due him.�

�I�ll lay you a bet he doesn�t get over three hundred.�

�No bet. I�ve heard enough about Chapman. He�s quite a card. What�s he doing with that dizzy blonde? Working a badger game?�

�A genteel version. But try and prove it.�

�I�m Homicide.� Fanning frowned. �You back at that mousetrap on North Avenue?�

�I call it home. You going to put Hugo back on my tail?�

�I told you he was back on a beat. But... you won�t play ball?�

�Lieutenant,� Sargent said seriously, �I actually haven�t the slightest idea who it is. It may well be Thayer. But I hope to get a lead by tomorrow afternoon. When I do I�ll let you know.�

�That�s a promise, Sargent. After all, there is such a thing as withholding information from the police.�

�That�s right. And here comes my train, lieutenant.�

He waited on the platform until the train was moving to see if Fanning intended to follow him back to the city. But the Homicide lieutenant was walking away.

Back in the Loop he telephoned the offices of Business Journals, Incorporated. He could easily have run over, but had no taste for a session with Chapman. The publisher sounded ill when Sargent got him on the phone.

�Bad news,� Sargent told him. �I talked to Mrs. Pelkey and I�m sure she hasn�t got the stock.�

�Ohmigawd!� groaned Chapman. �Then I�m a ruined man. Mrs. Sligo has it and it�ll cost me twenty thousand to get even a draw � if Ruth doesn�t double-cross me.�

�I thought you said you didn�t have twenty thousand?�

�I might barely make it if I mortgage everything I own. Even my sword collection! Sargent, I�d counted on you and you�ve let me down.�

�I didn�t let you down. Stop crying. There�s still a little hope. What�s Lew Thayer�s address?�

Chapman�s eagerness was pathetic. �You think Lew might still have it? Tell him I�ll pay him that twelve hundred dollars and take him back if he�ll only help me out. I�ll even give him a bonus.�

�Make him a partner.�

�All right, I will! Tell Lew��

�What�s his address?�

�Just a minute. I have it right here. Lew Thayer, care of Barney�s Tavern. That doesn�t sound right.�

�Maybe it is. What�s the street and number?�

�Willow, near Bissell.�

�Why, that�s right near my own neighborhood. Odd, I didn�t recognize the name. All right, I�m going to talk to him.�

�Call me after you do, Sargent. I�ll be waiting. At home after five-thirty.�

Sargent got a Wilson local elevated train and after a while descended to the street at Sheffield and Bissell. He walked a block eastward and then saw the sign: Barney�s Tavern. Alleys.

The main door opened on a barroom, in which were several pool tables. In the rear was a door leading to the bowling alleys. Several men were knocking balls around the pool tables and a half dozen loafers were holding up the bar.

Sargent ordered a glass of beer and after sipping about half moved across the room to watch the pool players. He edged his way carelessly around to the door of the bowling alleys and looked in. Lew Thayer was not in sight. He worked his way back to the bar, finishing his beer on the way.

�Fill it up,� he said to the bartender, then as the man brought the refill, �Lew been around today?�

�Lew who?�

�Lew Thayer.�

�Never heard of him.�

�Lew Thayer, I said, a stocky redhead.�

The bartender shook his head. �Don�t know him.�

�But you must know him. He hangs around here a lot.�

�Look, mister,� said the bartender, �I don�t know what your business is, but I saw your maneuvers a minute ago � and I still say I never even heard of Lew Thayer.�

Sargent grimaced. �I know how it is; you think I might be a bill collector or a process server. But, honest, I work at the same place he does � I mean at the same place he worked up to a couple of days ago. I�m Frank Sargent; he may have told you about me.�

�Uh-uh,� said the bartender. �You know what? Before I got this place I worked in a factory and one day somebody called up my home and said he was an old pal of mine from South Dakota and he was just passing through town and wanted to see me and couldn�t my wife tell him where I worked so he could get in touch with me? Well, my wife knew I�d once been in South Dakota, so she told the guy. And you know what? He was a process server and I got my pay garnisheed and it cost me sixty-six bucks.�

�Ah, hell!� Sargent said, in disgust.

�Ain�t it the truth, pal?� The bartender smiled and, turning, leaned his left elbow on the bar.

Then he gasped and his face became a study in chagrin. At the end of the bar was a door, which apparently led upstairs. It flew violently inward and Lew Thayer, eyes bloodshot and wild, staggered into the barroom. He stopped with feet spread wide apart and threatening to buckle under him at any moment.

�What the hell kind of a hotel is this, anyway?� he roared. �Can�t a man sleep around here?�

Barney, the bartender, hurried around the bar. �Shh!� he said in a hoarse whisper, �this isn�t a hotel, it�s��

�The hell it isn�t a hotel!� Lew Thayer thundered. �You think I don�t know where I am?�

�Sure, sure, Lew,� soothed Barney. �You�re home, this is Barney�s place.�

�Don�t gimme any of that!� Thayer retorted. �I know where I am. I�m at the Pollock Hotel in Columbus, Ohio. I just went to bed and I can�t sleep with all this noise. D�you have to tear down the hotel now?�

Frank Sargent stepped around Barney, the bartender, and took hold of Lew Thayer�s arm. �Hello, Lew,� he said.

Thayer looked at him owlishly. �What the hell you doing in Columbus, Ohio?�

�Ben Chapman sent me to see you. He wants to pay you the twelve hundred he owes you.�

�I don�t want it,� Thayer snarled. �I�m suing him and after I get through suing I�m going to punch him in his face.�

Barney relaxed. �Okay, Lew? You know this man?�

�Sure, who is he?�

�Frank Sargent, editor of Turkey Talk,� Sargent said, quickly.

�That�s a lie!� snapped Thayer. �Ernie Pelkey�s editor of Turkey Talk. Damfine fella, Ernie. Best friend I got in the world. Best friend...� Thayer leaned against Sargent, until the latter was holding up most of his weight. �Bes� frieninaworld. On�y Ben Chapman drove him nuts, the dirty, double-crossin� rat. Igonna-punchiminanose...� Thayer�s knees buckled under him.

Barney caught Thayer under the armpits and shoved Sargent aside. �Beat it, fella. I�m going to put him to bed.�

�All right,� said Sargent wearily. �I guess it�s the best place for him. How long has he been like that?�

�All week, more or less.�

Sargent left the tavern and walked down Bissell Street to Dayton and from there to North Avenue, which brought him out within a block of the Ajax Hotel. A clock in a store window showed ten minutes after five but he wasn�t in a mood to report to Ben O. Chapman. It would do Ben good to stew.

He walked down North Avenue to Larrabee and turning the corner saw the branch post office. He stared at it for a moment, then suddenly whirled and rushed back to North Avenue. He burst into the first store he came to, which happened to be a millinery shop.

He stabbed a finger at a red straw hat which had a green and white cockfeather sticking up about six inches above the crown.

�I�ll take that,� he said to a salesgirl.

The girl recoiled as if struck. �This hat?�

�Yes. How much is it?�

�Six dollars and fifty cents.�

�Put it in a box,� Sargent said. �And wrap the box in the brightest wrapping paper you�ve got. Have you got some red?�

�Why, yes.�

The girl got a hatbox, then went to the rear of the store and got some brilliant red wrapping paper. She started to wrap the box in the paper. When she finished, Sargent said, �Put another sheet around it. I�m going to mail it.�

The girl followed his instructions, then finally attached a shipping tag to the cord. Sargent himself addressed it:

Then he carried the package around the corner to the branch post office, where he mailed it. He was whistling as he left the post office.

When he reached the Ajax Hotel, Jim Robertson was sitting on the stairs, just inside the front door.

�There you are!� he cried. �I figured you�d be home any minute. I�ve been dying all afternoon to hear the dirt and then you ran out on me.�

�Chapman chased me out,� Sargent said.

�I know; I hear � through the wall. His ex has put the screws on him and he�s bleeding. But I want to hear about Minnesota. What�d you learn there?�

�Have you had dinner? No, of course not, too early. Well, let�s grab a bite and I�ll tell you about it.�

�Swell! I haven�t a thing on tonight. We can take our time.�

�What, no date?�

�Uh-uh, it�s Friday night. Big date is tomorrow.�

They turned the corner on Halsted and entered a Hungarian restaurant where they both ordered Wiener Schnitzel. After giving their orders, Sargent brought Robertson up to date.

�You know the original setup?� he asked.

�Pretty well; I got it from Ernie. Ben was up against the wall a year ago and had to get some outside capital. Sligo came in, but insisted on a fifty-fifty partnership. You have to have at least three stockholders for a corporation and neither wanted to break the fifty-fifty rule... so they cooked up a scheme whereby each gave up one share... and issued it to an employee. Ben gave his to Ernie... rather, he put him down on the books as owning the share, but wouldn�t actually let him hold the stock.�

�And Ernie, feeling he was entitled to it, helped himself.�

�I�m not so sure of that,� said Robertson, frowning. �Ernie was a pretty decent sort, until Ben�s sledge hammer broke him down.�

�Well, let�s say he didn�t take the stock then until he�d suffered the nervous breakdown. Because he did take it. He sold it to Daniel Sligo.�

�That�s a lie!� Robertson shot out.

�Sorry, Jim. Mrs. Pelkey admitted it to me. Ernie came home with a thousand dollars, which he told her he got from Sligo.�

Robertson frowned painfully. �He did crack up, then. Well, he deserved the money � and Ben deserved it, too. So it�s the other share that Ruth Reese owns.�

�I�m not too sure. Sligo bought Ernie�s share, but if he bought it, why was he killed?�

�Eh?�

�He�d been double-crossed by the hillbilly, Hanson Hill, but now he had Ernie�s stock and had Chapman by the throat.�

�Yeah,� said Robertson thoughtfully. �But how�d Hill�s share get to Ben�s ex?�

�Didn�t you hear Ben on the telephone this afternoon? He was bleating like a stuck pig.�

�You mean when he called up Hanson Hill? Why... why, Hill told him that he�d sold that stock to Lew Thayer. I did hear Thayer�s name mentioned. Say � you suppose...?�

�I don�t know. Thayer may have sold it to Ruth Reese. On the other hand, Daniel Sligo was murdered.�

�And it wasn�t Ben? I�ve had him sized for it all along.�

�If he�s acting now, he�s the world�s greatest actor. But he may be at that. He may be doing all this crying to cover up... and tomorrow he�ll pop up with Ernie�s share of stock and everything will be all right again with Ben O. Chapman and Company.�

Robertson shook his head. �No, he�s scared. His ex gave him the fright of his life. Unless... d�you suppose Ben owes her a barrel of alimony?�

�I gathered that she walked out on him. Besides she�s remarried. Do they allow alimony if a woman remarries?�

�Sometimes they do, I�ve heard. I wouldn�t know, never having taken the plunge even once. I can�t figure it out!�

They had been eating while talking and now, finished, smoked for a few moments in silence. Then Robertson said, shaking his head:

�Suppose Ben�s ex-wife has both the missing shares of stock?�

�I thought of that,� Sargent replied. �If she has, she got one of them from the person who murdered Daniel Sligo.�

Robertson exclaimed softly, �D�you suppose a woman could have used that pair of scissors?�

�It�s possible; they were thin and very sharp. But... the woman I traced all through Minnesota never wielded that pair of shears. Unless I got the wrong picture of her. She might be fooled by a man, but she�s no murderess. If she was, she�d have killed Ben eight years ago, instead of walking out on him.�

�You said she was just a kid then. She�s older now. Bucked the world by herself. The world�s a tough place, Frank.�

�I�ve been around. Ringing doorbells is no picnic.� He laughed shortly. �Well, what now, Jim?�

Robertson shrugged. �I still think we might go out and get drunk.�

�A quiet movie would suit me better. I didn�t sleep too well on the train last night.�

�Okay; maybe we can find a double feature and both get a good nap.�

They left the restaurant and turned the corner on North Avenue. Then Robertson brushed against Sargent and said out of the corner of his mouth, �Don�t look right away, but we�re being followed. A little guy in a brown suit.�

Sargent started to inhale sharply, then remembered. He�d hired Wilting to have all the Chapman editors shadowed this evening and the detective had undoubtedly picked up Robertson at the office. But he didn�t want to tell Robertson, so he whispered back, �Is it the same detective who followed us the other day?�

�No, a new one. I noticed this one in the restaurant straining his ears to listen to us. I figured him for a buttinsky; but he�s after us. I�d like to give him a poke in the nose, just for fun.�

They stopped to look in a window and then Sargent picked out the shadow. He had likewise stopped at a window, three stores behind them. He was a small, indifferent-looking man and seemed to blend in well with the casual strollers of the avenue. Which was probably why he was a good shadow.

They started off again. �How long has this been going on?� he asked Robertson. �All week?�

�I don�t know. I�ve been looking for shadows since the other day, but this is the first time I�ve noticed one. Damn� funny, every time I�m with you one of them pops up.�

Sargent frowned. �I lost a shadow just before I went to Duluth. I don�t know why the devil. Fanning keeps them on my trail.�

�Maybe he figures you might have seen the person who shot Pelkey.�

�I didn�t. And neither has Fanning. At least I haven�t heard of any arrests.�

They passed Larrabee Street and crossed over. The shadow followed behind them. Past Sedgwick they finally found a theater with a couple of pictures neither had seen. Sitting in the darkened orchestra, Robertson said, �When we leave here, let�s split up suddenly and see which one of us he follows.�

It was ten o�clock when they came out of the theater. The little man in the brown suit was dawdling in the lobby, pretending to be looking at the stills of next week�s bill. Jim Robertson whispered, �See you tomorrow,� then loudly, �Well, Frank, suppose we go and have a bite to eat now? There�s a good restaurant over on Clark Street and��

They stepped out of the theater and Robertson whirled to the left, heading for Clark Street. The shadow went after Robertson.

Sargent walked to Sedgwick Street and stepped into a taxi.

�Fullerton and Clark,� he said.

Ten minutes later he stepped out of the taxi a block from Ben Chapman�s apartment house. When he reached the entrance a man stepped out of the shadows.

�Mr. Sargent!�

�Wilting!� exclaimed Sargent. �What the devil are you doing here?�

�Working for you.�

�But I thought you were going to shadow Lew Thayer?�

�Uh-huh, he�s upstairs.�

Sargent whistled softly. At five o�clock Lew Thayer had been bordering on delirium tremens after a prolonged binge. Now, five hours later, he was sober enough to call on Ben Chapman. Well, it was possible, but just about possible.

He said to Wilting, �How long have you been following him?�

�Only an hour; he didn�t show up until about nine.�

�Was he sober then?�

�No, but he stopped at a couple of saloons on the way here and that seemed to sober him up. He was walking pretty steady when he went in, ten minutes ago.�

Sargent nodded. �Well, keep on his tail.�

�Ain�t lost a man in four years.�

Sargent went into the apartment house and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Reaching the door of Chapman�s apartment he listened for a moment. Voices were rumbling inside, but he couldn�t make out any words. He leaned against the door buzzer.

The rumbling inside stopped. Chapman�s voice called, querulously, �Who is it?�

�Frank Sargent.�

He heard Chapman exclaim before the door was opened. Through a haze of cigarette smoke, Sargent looked in on a scene that was not very different from the one he had seen here on his previous visit. There were eight or ten people in the living room.

�Sargent,� Chapman cried, �why didn�t you phone me at the office like I asked?�

�Wasn�t anything to phone about. Lew was drunk as a boiled owl...�

�He�s here!�

Sargent pretended surprise. �Yeah?�

Chapman made an impatient gesture, �Come in. Thayer�s making trouble. Maybe you can talk to him.�

Sargent followed Chapman in to the party. A couple were making violent love in one corner and several guests were seated on the floor. There was a vacant spot in the circle, which Ben O. Chapman had evidently occupied.

From the kitchen came a scream and Ben Chapman, muttering under his breath, headed in that direction. Sargent was close upon his heels.

Eileen Prescott, the beautiful advertising solicitor of Turkey Talk, was wrestling with Lew Thayer and an uncouth individual with coarse, sensuous features and a bald head. It looked like a wrestling bout at first, but when Sargent got closer he saw that Eileen was really trying to prevent Lew Thayer from assaulting the commission house man. Apparently he hadn�t signed the contract yet.

�Lew!� howled Chapman. �Stop that! What are you trying to do, create a scene?� That was a masterpiece of understatement.

�Who, me?� Thayer asked indignantly. �I was only tryin� to stop this monkey from pawing Eileen. Eileen�s my girl, see, and I don�t let no one paw my girl.�

�She ain�t your girl,� whinnied the commission man. �I brung her here, see. I took her to dinner and I brung her here. She wasn�t complainin�; was you, honey?�

At that moment Eileen spotted Frank Sargent and deserted both Lew Thayer and her advertising prospect. �Frankie,� she cooed, �what a surprise! Where have you be-an?� She pronounced it just like that.

�Up in Minnesota,� Sargent replied. �Duluth.�

Ben Chapman cried out hoarsely, �What�s that, Sargent?�

�Huh? Eileen asked me where I�d be-an, and I told her.�

�You said Duluth, Minnesota!�

�That�s right, that�s where I was yesterday.�

�Why? What were doing up there? You didn�t tell me.�

�I�ll tell you about it sometime.�

�You�ll tell me now.�

Eileen cut in, pouting, �No one pays any attention to poor me!�

�I�ll take you somewhere�s else, baby,� said the commission man. �I don�t like this party, anyway.� He advanced, licking his lips. Then Lew Thayer let out a bellow.

�I told you to lay off her!�

Whack! His fist smacked the commission man high on the face and knocked him against a table on which stood a large bottle of ginger ale and a small bottle of whisky. Both were knocked to the floor. The bottle of whisky broke, the ginger ale didn�t.

�Oh, Mr. Maltz!� squealed Eileen.

Sargent threw both arms about Lew Thayer, breaking his fighting stance by pinning his arms to his side. All this seemed like old stuff to Sargent.

�Le� go me,� snarled Thayer.

�You�re fired, Thayer!� whined Ben Chapman. �I�ve put up with you too long. Not another publisher would take what I�ve taken.�

Sargent�s patience snapped. �Shut up, Chapman!� he cried. �Shut up and get out of here. And take Eileen and Maltz with you.�

Surprisingly, Sargent�s flare-up got results. Eileen gave him a shocked glance and tripped out to the living room. Mr. Maltz scuttled after her and was followed by Ben Chapman. Then Sargent released Lew Thayer.

�Now you and I are going to have a talk,� he said grimly.

Thayer stared at him. �Say, you�re the new man on Turkey Talk. Fella who took Ernie Pelkey�s place.�

�Yes!� snapped Sargent. �I�m also the man whose life was saved by Ernest Pelkey at the cost of his own.�

Thayer winced. �Jeez, that was tough. That�s why I been hittin� the bottle. Ernie and me was pals.�

�A pal of Ernie�s killed him. Maybe it was you.�

A deep crimson darkened Thayer�s already red face, �Look here, Sargent, I don�t take that from any man.�

�You�ll take it and like it!� Sargent snarled. �If you�re the man who killed Pelkey you�ll take even more. If you didn�t do it, you can stay sober long enough to help me get the man who did. Can you understand that?�

Thayer swallowed hard. �You mean that? You�re on Pelkey�s side? I thought��

�Never mind what you thought. I�ve taken Chapman�s gaff because it furthered my investigation.�

�You�re a cop!� accused Thayer.

�I am not! I told you why I was doing this. Now listen for a minute. You bought a share of stock of Business Journals from Hanson Hill some time ago.�

�Who, me?�

�You! Don�t lie, because Hill admitted it. You gave him twenty-five dollars for it.�

Thayer seemed to deflate a little. �All right, I thought it would be a joke on Ben Chapman. I was going to use it to keep him in line. Then Ernie...�

�Yes?�

�He wanted it from me.�

�When was this?�

�Last week, after Chapman fired him.�

Sargent looked steadily at Lew Thayer. �And you gave it to him?�

�Well, Ernie promised that I�d get the twelve hundred Ben owed me.�

�So Ernest Pelkey had the two shares of stock. I don�t get it. I have it on good authority that he sold one of those shares to Daniel Sligo for a thousand dollars.�

Lew Thayer�s eyes suddenly evaded Sargent�s. The latter crowded closer to Thayer and took hold of an arm. �This is important, Lew. Damned important. Did you know Ernie sold that single share to Dan Sligo?�

Thayer hesitated a moment, then shrugged in surrender. �Yeah, sure. After all, Ben chucked Ernie out without even a week�s notice. Ernie was a married man and besides he was kinda sick. I didn�t see any thing wrong with him selling that share for a grand especially since...�

�Since he still had the other share? I see. He sold one share to Sligo for a thousand dollars, knowing full well that Sligo with an apparent majority would crowd Ben and then Ben, to protect himself, would have to pay Ernest whatever the latter asked for the other share... which would give him no more than a draw with Sligo.�

Thayer scowled. �What�s wrong about that? If you knew Chapman as well as the rest of us...�

�I�ve got to know him pretty well. Whatever you think of Chapman I think twice as hard. But if what you�re telling me is true... then Ernie Pelkey killed Dan Sligo.�

Thayer�s eyes fell again.

Sargent continued, �Sligo must have suspected that he was being razzle-dazzled and went for Ernie.�

�All right,� said Thayer. �I figured that out a long time ago. But it was self-defense, see? Sligo made a pass at Ernie and Ernie grabbed up the scissors and let him have it.�

�No,� said Sargent. �Sligo was killed in his own office. But he was killed with Chapman�s shears. The murderer brought them into Sligo�s office. He didn�t just grab them up in self-defense. It was premeditated.�

Thayer stared at Sargent goggle-eyed. �Say that again!�

Sargent repeated it, adding, �And Pelkey didn�t commit suicide. That was murder.�

�What are you driving at?� Thayer asked hoarsely.

�What I�ve been aiming at right from the start. I want to get the murderer of Ernest Pelkey and Daniel Sligo... because I�m still convinced that it was the same person.�

�It couldn�t have been!�

�Why not?�

�Because... because...� Thayer started floundering and Sargent stepped into the breech.

�I know some things you don�t, Thayer. Maybe. I know that an entirely different person popped up today with one of those two shares of stock that Ernest Pelkey had. Ben Chapman�s ex-wife!�

�What?� cried Thayer, almost staggering from the astonishing information.

Sargent left him in the kitchen then. If Thayer had told the truth he was no longer important in the case. If he had lied about selling that share of stock to Ernest Pelkey, he was too cognizant of his own guilt to spill anything to Sargent.

In the living room Ben O. Chapman was sitting on the floor, entertaining his guests with anecdotes of his successful business career. Eileen Prescott was sitting beside him and on the other side of her, Mr. Maltz was holding one of her hands. Eileen half started up when she saw Sargent, but he shook his head.

�Ben,� he said, �have you got a phone here?�

�In the bedroom. I�ll show you.�

�Never mind.�

Sargent crossed the room and entered Ben Chapman�s bedroom. The walls were hung with fifty or sixty swords, daggers and knives. There was also a bicycle exerciser and a small shelf of books. Sargent, curious as to Ben�s taste in literature, scanned the titles, Forty Years, Forty Millions, The Life of Frank A. Munsey stood between Boccaccio�s Decameron and Fanny Hill. Farther along the shelf were: Business Depressions, Past and Present; Mein Kampf; and Horatio Alger, by Herbert C. Mayes.

The telephone was on a stand beside a bed covered with a black velvet spread. Sargent shot the bolt on the inside of the door before going to the phone.

The directory was under the stand and Sargent looked up the number listed for Daniel Sligo. Then he dialed it. It was some time before Martha Sligo�s hoarse voice snapped, �Hello!�

�Listen,� said Sargent, in a hushed bass, �you�re having a stockholders� meeting tomorrow with Ben Chapman, aren�t you?�

There was a slight pause, then Martha Sligo said, �What of it? Who is this?�

�You don�t know me,� said Sargent, �but I can do you a favor. A mighty big favor.�

�Is this� Who are you?� Martha Sligo demanded querulously. �I won�t talk to you unless you tell me who you are.�

�Then you won�t talk � and you�ll be sorry!� Sargent put the receiver on the hook.

He waited approximately two minutes, then dialed the number again. �Do you want to talk?� he asked, when Martha Sligo answered.

�Yes! That is, if you�re the right person.�

�Eh?� Sargent snarled. �Somebody else been calling you up? Then deal with them � if they�ve got it!�

�Wait!� wailed Martha Sligo. �Wait a minute... please!�

Sargent hung up. Then he stared at the phone. It was true, Martha Sligo had been offered Business Journals stock and she was willing to buy it. That meant Ben Chapman was licked... unless Sargent could find Ruth Reese before eleven in the morning.

But did he want to find her before that time? He didn�t care if Ben Chapman lost control of Business Journals. It would serve the man right to suffer a crushing business and financial defeat after all the careers he had ruined in his time.

Except... that would be a victory for X, the murderer.

Sargent became aware of a persistent tapping on the bedroom door. He went to it and shot the bolt. Ben Chapman crowded in, closing the door behind him.

�What is it, Sargent? What did you learn?�

�I learned,� said Sargent deliberately, �that you�re going to take one awful beating tomorrow.�

Chapman wailed, �Everybody�s against me. You�ve let me down worst of all. You�re��

�Fired,� said Sargent. �And you�ll be fired tomorrow, unless I get a lucky break in the morning.�

Chapman�s eagerness created by the meager hope thrown to him was almost pathetic. �There�s a chance, Sargent? Oh, good! You�ll do it, Sargent, I know you will. I�ll raise your salary.�

�Ah, hell! Now pull yourself together and answer a couple of straight questions. Without any nonsense. First, why are you throwing a party here, tonight of all times?�

�Because I was afraid to be alone. There�s safety with people around you. I told you I had been threatened.�

�Who threatened you?�

Chapman blinked. �Why... why, Daniel was murdered, then Pelkey...�

�But who threatened you?�

�Why, no one exactly, but I can sense it. They�re going to get me.�

For the second time within the half hour Sargent lost his patience. �Stand still, you fool! I mean keep that rattlebrain of yours still for a minute.�

�You can�t talk to me like that,� Chapman whimpered. �You�re just like all the others.�

Sargent caught his employer by the front of his shirt. �I said, stand still! Now answer this question: Why were you having Daniel Sligo shadowed before his death?�

Chapman�s eyes rolled wildly. �How do you know that?�

Sargent shook him violently. �I�m asking the questions. Why did you have Sligo shadowed?�

�Because I was afraid he�d go to Pelkey after I�d discharged Pelkey. I knew Pelkey had that share of stock.�

�Then why did you fire Pelkey?�

�Because he was a raving maniac! What could I do? He assaulted me fearfully, right in my own office.�

�Why?�

�No reason at all. I couldn�t understand��

�Why?� insisted Sargent.

�I don�t know. Well, he accused me of trying to steal his wife from him.�

�You were that man!� gasped Sargent. �I... I�d thought that was Jim Robertson.�

�Robertson? Has he been shining up to Hester Pelkey?�

�No, you fool. I said I�d thought he was the man. And it was you. Why the devil didn�t you tell me this at the start?�

�What difference does it make?�

�None � now! But I�d have known why Pelkey had such a hatred for you. It would have explained Pelkey.�

�But it didn�t really amount to much,� Chapman whined. �Hester... I mean Mrs. Pelkey � used to come down to the office to see her husband and sometimes he wouldn�t be there. I... I took her to lunch a couple of times.�

�And filled her with your wealth and power and success. And all the time her husband was working for you for a measly forty dollars a week.�

�Forty-five!�

Sargent pushed Chapman away from him. �Tomorrow�s Saturday, Chapman,� he said. �If you�re still controlling Business Journals you can fire me at noon; if you�re out, I�ll quit to spare Mrs. Sligo from firing me. Until then...�

He walked out on Chapman. Heading through the living room he shot a quick glance around and failed to see Lew Thayer. Reaching the street he looked for Wilting the detective, but he was gone. So he assumed that Thayer had left and Wilting was on his trail.

It was after midnight when he reached his room at the Ajax Hotel that he hadn�t occupied for three nights. There were two letters and a postcard under his door. The postcard contained an announcement that the Beagles of the Holy Rollers were giving a dance at the Mozart Hall on Clybourn Avenue on August 10, Admission 75 cents. The first letter was from the Small Loans Finance Company urging him to borrow money from them. Sargent tossed it in the wastebasket after the postcard and turned to the second letter.

Sargent tossed the letter into the wastebasket. �Nuts to you, Horace,� he said; �you�re the man picked Willkie to beat Roosevelt!�

Frank Sargent was up at six-thirty in the morning. By seven he had grabbed a quick breakfast at a near-by restaurant and was walking toward the Halsted-North El Station.

He got off at Wells and Adams and walked east on Adams toward the big post-office building. It was twenty-five minutes after seven when he entered; only a few people were moving about in the public halls and rooms.

In the lock-box room, Sargent located Box 2629 and peered in. There were two or three letters in the box. He could not make out the name on the top letter, but sticking out just below it was the corner of a pink card. He nodded in satisfaction.

When a package was too large to put into a box, the mail clerk dropped in a pink card, which on presentation at the package window produced the package. That was Sargent�s scheme. He�d been afraid in the rush and bustle that he could not spot the person opening Box 2629, so he had mailed a large, cumbersome package that he could identify. Now all he had to do was watch the package window and when someone claimed a brilliant red package...

Men and boys with leather pouches began to come into the room about a quarter to eight. They generally went to the large-sized boxes and emptied them of their contents, putting the mail in the leather pouches. By eight o�clock there was a crowd of fifty or more persons in the room and Sargent was glad that he had thought of the red package ruse. He would never have been able to spot the holder of Box 2629.

Sargent took up a position by a stand on which were money order blanks, inkstands and pens. At eight o�clock the package window was opened and he watched it continuously, although toying with a pen and making marks on a money order blank.

Packages were passed through the window, small packages, large, long fiat ones and short thick ones. But the big cube-shaped red package did not make its appearance. At a quarter after eight the crowds thinned, but toward quarter to nine they became heavier again and by nine o�clock the crush was so thick that Sargent could hardly see the package window. He deserted the writing stand then and joined the press about the window, letting himself be swirled here and there, but always keeping an eye on the window.

It was well that he did, for suddenly the big red package was passed through. Sargent looked at the recipient and gasped in astonishment. He would never have spotted this woman. She was forty, at least, dark complexioned and fat. She weighed close to two hundred pounds.

Yet she had his package. She brushed past him on her way out and he even glimpsed the name on the address tag.

Surely, this could not be the former wife of Ben O. Chapman. Ben could pick them. Witness Eileen Prescott, Mildred O�Kelly... and Hester Pelkey. Of course, it was eight years or more since he had been married to Ruth Reese, but still no woman could go down that fast.

He followed the fat woman out of the mail-box room, through a corridor and out the Dearborn Street door. Never more than twenty feet behind her, he kept his eyes glued on the package. If it should change hands, he would spot it.

The package turned east at Adams, crossed Dearborn and headed toward State. It still went east, past State to Wabash and then south. And suddenly it turned into a shabby building. Sargent almost went past the door, but wheeled in time to see the red package and its conveyer heading for the elevator.

�Up!� he cried, and rushed forward.

He squeezed in even as the doors were closing and jostled the fat woman. She glared at him. He tried to worm his way into the rear of the car and someone jabbed him in the back.

�Floors, please!� the elevator operator sang out.

�Six,� the fat woman said.

She swung the red package high as she left the elevator and a corner of it gouged Sargent�s face. �Sorry,� she apologized in a tone that indicated plainly enough that she didn�t really care.

Sargent stepped after her and she shot a glance over her shoulder. He pretended to be searching for an office number.

And then she took hold of a doorknob and pushed open a door. Sargent passed, went ten feet and turned back. On the ground-glass door was the room number, 616, and the name of the tenant: Watson Mail Service.

He exhaled wearily. Damn it all, couldn�t anything come easy? This was a mailing address, where for $2.50 a month small businessmen and individuals could receive mail. Evidently Ruth Reese had her mail picked up at the post office. Then she came for it here � or sent someone.

For a moment Sargent toyed with the idea of going into the office and trying to pump Ruth Reese�s address from the fat woman. But he didn�t think that would be successful.

Yet � it was twenty minutes after nine. He had only an hour and forty minutes before Ruth Reese sold her share of stock to Ben O. Chapman. He wondered how that would be arranged. In a manner that would protect her, no doubt. Ruth Reese was very, very cautious.

He approached Room 616, but with his hand touching the knob, turned away. He rang for the �down� elevator and when it came rode down to the lobby.

There was a telephone booth next to the newsstand. From it he could see the elevators. He looked up the number of the Decker Detective Agency, then stepped into the booth and dialed the number.

Wilting�s secretary answered, �Decker Detective Agency.�

�This is Frank Sargent. Is Wilting there?�

�Yes, he�s been trying to get you at your office for the past half hour. Just a moment.�

Wilting came on. �Report,� he said.

�The hell with that now!� Sargent snapped. �I�m in a spot. I�ve got to get an address and it�s held by one of these mail address outfits. Do you know how to get an address from them?�

�Cinch.�

�Then hustle over here to the Potter Building on Wabash, near Adams. Come arunning. I�ll be waiting in the lobby.�

He slammed the receiver on the hook, then stepped out of the booth and bought a morning paper. He opened it and leaned against the wall where he could watch the elevators over the top of the papers.

It was exactly six minutes before Wilting came into the lobby, which was good time for a man of his easygoing habits. He nodded to Sargent. �Want your reports first or this address?�

�The address, come on. It�s on the sixth floor.�

They stepped into the elevator and did not speak again until they had got out on the sixth floor, when Sargent said, �The name is Ruth Reese.�

�Reese?� said Wilting. �Then I don�t have to flash my badge and pretend I�m a regular cop. I know where she lives.�

Sargent cried out in consternation, �Why didn�t you tell me? I wouldn�t have had to go through all this rigmarole.�

�I didn�t find out till last night.� He pulled four cards from his pocket and shuffled them. �Yeah, here it is: 1299 N. State. Lew Thayer went to see her after he left Chapman�s.�

�Thayer? I don�t believe it.�

Wilting pushed the elevator button. �I followed Thayer and he went straight from Chapman�s to this Reese dame � without even stopping at any saloon on the way. He was inside for almost an hour.�

Sargent snatched the cards from Wilting�s hand just as the elevator opened. As the elevator was going down he read the first card:

Sargent had to stop reading as they left the lobby of the Potter Building, but outside he hailed a cab and piling in, gestured to Wilting. Wilting followed and said to the driver, �Twelve-ninety-nine North State and step on it!�

Sargent looked at the second card:

�This is Robertson,� said Sargent, tapping the card. �I was the other man with him. Now which of these remaining cards is which?�

�The one with the little �B� in the corner is Grosvenor Black, the one with the �L� is Andrew Lawrence.�

Sargent read the �L� card first. It said:

So, Lawrence spent a simple enough evening. Sargent looked at Grosvenor Black�s card and exclaimed softly. For the card read:

�Whipsaw!� cried Sargent. �He won! That�s my money!�

�You were on Whipsaw?� grunted Wilting. �I�ll be damned. Why didn�t you tell me? I was on Snaggletooth in the same race. He came in seventh and there were only seven horses in the race.�

�I gave Grosvenor fifty dollars to put on Whipsaw. Let�s see...� He looked at the card again:

�He�s got into my money!� Sargent cried.

�He ought to have some left,� Wilting said. �Read on.�

Sargent did. After losing the money in the crap game. Grosvenor made another telephone call and picked up another blonde at the Jameson Hotel. He stayed with her until eleven-thirty, after which he took a taxicab to Madison and Green, going into a building, into which the detective-shadow could not obtain ingress. Black remained inside until 2:45 in the morning, after which he took a taxicab to the Browning Apartments on South Drexel, where he had an apartment.

Sargent put down the cards. �If he spent all my money, I�ll skin him alive.�

�There�s our address, right ahead,� said Wilting.

It was ten minutes to ten.

Number 1299 was an ancient three-story brick building, jammed in between two taller apartments. There was a tiny vestibule, off which a staircase ran to the second and third floors and a short hall led to the entrance of the first-floor apartment.

Wilting and Sargent went into the vestibule and the detective gestured to the mailboxes. There it was for anyone to see � anyone who picked this building from a million others in the city. Ruth Reese, a card said under the first mailbox. That indicated her apartment was on the first floor.

Wilting opened the inner door and they started down the short hall to the door. When they were six feet from it the door was opened and a woman stepped out. She wore a tailored suit of red and brown plaid, the brown color predominating. It was set off by a matching hat of the same material. Gloves were on her hands and a purse was under her arm. She was a blonde and almost as beautiful as Eileen Prescott.

Her eyes showed some apprehension as they advanced toward her. �Miss Reese?� Sargent asked, knowing very well that it was.

She looked from Sargent to Wilting. �I was just going out,� she murmured.

�My name is Frank Sargent,� Sargent said. He nodded to the door she had been about to lock. �Do you mind?�

She hesitated an instant, then turned and led the way into the apartment. It was a cheap, shabbily furnished place. �Will you excuse me a minute?� Ruth Reese asked, starting for a bedroom.

Wilting headed her off and Sargent said, �Do you mind? No telephone calls. This man is a... detective!�

She turned, looked at Sargent, then seated herself in an overstuffed chair that needed reupholstering. She kept her purse in her lap.

�All right,� she said.

�I�ve been up in Minnesota,� Sargent began.

She nodded.

�You�ve heard? I thought so. Do you mind giving me your purse?�

�I do mind � decidedly!�

Wilting walked over deliberately and snatched it from her lap. He threw it to Sargent, who unsnapped it. Inside was a folded paper of stiff parchment stock. He took it out and unfolded it. It was a share of stock in Business Journals, Incorporated. He folded it again, then looked at the back side of it, on which were written in ink two endorsements, transferring the stock. He stared steadily at one of the names.

He said to Ruth Reese, �This is it, you know.�

�Ben Chapman robbed me of eight thousand dollars,� Ruth Reese said evenly. �I lent it to him before we were married. He never gave it back. Ben Chapman is just about the lowest man on this earth.�

�In spades,� said Sargent. �I won�t argue with you on that point. But murder is murder.�

�What are you talking about?�

�Don�t you know?�

�You said murder. How does that concern me?�

�Daniel Sligo was murdered,� said Sargent. �And Ernest Pelkey.�

He could see her lips tighten into a thin line. �Chapman would do anything.�

�No, not murder. He�s too much of a coward for that.�

Her nostrils were flaring now. �That�s not true. Chapman...�

Sargent shook his head insistently.

For a moment they looked at each other in silence, then Ruth Reese said in a hushed voice, �It�s not true.�

�I�m afraid it is. And I think you know it.�

�No!� she cried. �No, I don�t know it!�

�He told you it was Chapman?�

�Yes, of course. It was Ben Chapman, the slimy�� she broke off and her beautiful eyes darted about wildly. �You�re lying!�

He looked at her silently until she broke and covered her face with her gloved hands. Then he said in a gentle monotone, �He isn�t worth it. You had a bad time of it with Chapman and he was the natural reaction.�

She put down her hands. Her eyes were bright with tears. �What are you going to do?�

�I�m going to sell this share of stock to Ben Chapman,� he said. �I�m going to sell it for eight thousand dollars, plus six per cent interest for seven years. I�m going to give you that money. It�ll be enough for you to make a new start � somewhere else.�

But there was still a question in her eyes. Vicious though he was, the ne�er-do-well had a strong hold on her.

Sargent shook his head. �Ernest Pelkey�s widow is very much like you.� He waited a moment, then nodded to Wilting. The detective followed Sargent to the door, where the latter whispered:

�I may have trouble; can you dig up a heavy-set foreign-looking woman? Her name is Mrs. Druher and she keeps a rooming house in Hibbing, Minnesota. I�ll put my hand on the man�s shoulder and she�s to say, �That�s the man!� He only saw her once and won�t remember.�

�Etta�ll dig up someone. My wife�s awful good at that.�

�The redhead�s your wife?�

�Oh, sure. What time you want her?�

�Eleven-thirty sharp. And you stay here until then. Understand?� He made an almost imperceptible gesture toward Ruth Reese.

Wilting nodded and Sargent went out. He walked to Division Street and hailed a cab.

It was twenty minutes to eleven when he entered the offices of Business Journals, Incorporated. Ben Chapman was pacing the corridor between the rows of cubicles. Beyond, in her late husband�s office, Mrs. Sligo sat with her arms folded over her generous bosom. Mr. Koppis, her handle-bar mustached attorney, was in the office with her.

�Sargent!� Chapman screamed. �Where have you been? I�ve been waiting for you for hours.� He searched Sargent�s face and alarm spread over his own.

�Come into my office,� he moaned.

Andy Lawrence, Jim Robertson and Grosvenor Black were all in their own cubbyholes. They knew that fireworks were on the program for this morning and it wasn�t the Fourth of July.

Chapman closed the door behind Sargent with elaborate caution, then caught him by the coat lapel. �Don�t keep me in suspense, Sargent.�

�I won�t. I failed.�

�Ohmigawd!�

�I thought I had her,� Sargent said. �I got her post-office box number and mailed her a package all wrapped in bright, red wrapping paper. I waited at the post office until someone called for it. It was taken by a big, fat woman, weighing two hundred pounds.�

�That isn�t Ruth. She�s slender, very beautiful.�

�You pick them well,� said Sargent. �But this fat woman got the red package and carried it to a mail address service on Wabash. It was useless trying to get your former wife�s address from her.�

�Did you offer her money?�

�She wasn�t the bribing type.� Sargent looked at his watch. �It�s ten minutes to eleven. She�ll be telephoning you shortly. You�ve got the money?�

�I could get only eighteen thousand,� Chapman whined. �I even gave my stock to the bank for security and I couldn�t get the entire twenty thousand. If she refuses the eighteen thousand I�m lost. Did you see the look on Mrs. Sligo�s face?�

�Yes,� said Sargent. �She�s got the other share of stock. I wonder how much she paid for it.�

�I thought you said Sligo had bought it before��

�I was wrong. The killer sold it to Mrs. Sligo this morning.�

�This morning. How do you know?�

�I talked to her on the telephone last night, from your apartment. I pretended I had the other share and got enough out of her to know that she was pretty much on edge. She didn�t have the stock at that time. But she�s got it now.�

�Why didn�t you tell me?� Chapman said peevishly. �I might have been able to buy it myself. Martha Sligo didn�t have anywhere near even eighteen thousand.�

The telephone on his desk tinkled and he rushed to scoop it up. �Who?� he cried. �My Gawd! Send him away. I�ve got no time now for nonsense.�

But Mildred O�Kelly couldn�t send the caller away. There was a scuffle outside and then Chapman�s door was kicked in.

Hanson Hill, as lean as a hungry wolf � and as mad, pounced into the room. �Here you are, you weasel!� he roared. �Where�s that seven hundred and fifty dollars you promised me?�

�I haven�t got it. Go away!�

�I�ll go,� said Hill, �I�ll go, but here�s something to remember me by!�

Whack!

Hill�s bony fist caught Ben 0. Chapman right smack in his left eye and carried him clear across the room, where he brought up against the wall. He seemed to hang there for a moment, then slid along the wall to a sitting position on the floor.

Grosvenor Black padded in, hanging his head. �Ah!� cried Sargent. �I�d almost forgotten.�

�Forgotten?� Black asked in awe. �Whipsaw...�

�I figured it out. Four hundred and forty dollars!�

�Honest, Frank,� Grosvenor Black said, �I was hijacked.�

�Hijacked?� said Sargent grimly. He took a card from his pocket and read:

�What�s that?� cried Grosvenor, aghast.

�Shall I go on? The Jameson Hotel... Halsted and Green...�

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!�

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?�

�Mrs. Druher� was a stout, middle-aged woman on the slatternly side. She waddled forward, looked at Sargent, then turned her eyes on Robertson. �Dot is de man,� she said, �de no-good loafer!�

Then Robertson broke. �Oh, what�s the use? If Ruth sold me out...� He laughed harshly. �And here comes Loony Lew, the boozer!�

Lew Thayer it was, eyes bloodshot and wild. He wobbled in, like a sailor in Frisco, on the fourth day of his three-day leave.

�Ben, you louse!� he shouted. �I been thinkin� it over. I ain�t gonna waste money suin� you. I�m gonna get satisfaction like this.�

Whack!

For the second time that morning Ben O. Chapman went down. It was an anticlimax to the tense scene that had just been enacted. Chapman relaxed and watched Lieutenant Fanning put handcuffs on Jim Robertson. Then he followed the detective and the retiring editor of The Skating Rink to the door.

�Thanks, Jim,� he said, �for helping me with the editorial stuff.�

Robertson grinned wryly � and cockily. �You repaid me, pal,� he said, holding up his manacled wrists.

The elevator came to the floor and a portly, gray-haired man stepped out. �Is this the office of Business Jour�?� he began, then stopped. �Sargent! I�ve just come from your hotel and what a mousetrap it turned out to be. I don�t approve of Trotter field men living in such slum places.�

�Hello, Mr. Trotter,� said Sargent. �How are you?�

�Disappointed,� said Horace Trotter. �Disappointed in you. I�d had hopes for you. I was going to make you Director of Public Relations for the Institute.�

�Press agent, you mean?�

�Well, yes. Actually I was going to have you get out a house organ. A fine, illustrated magazine of, say, about twenty-four pages��

�Grab it, Sargent,� said Jim Robertson, stepping into the waiting elevator with Lieutenant Fanning. �Grab it � and good luck.�

Sargent waited until the elevator door had closed, then turned back to Horace Trotter. �If that job�s still open... I�ll take it.�

�Good! cried Trotter. That�s why I came here, to try to persuade you to accept it. But what about your editorial job here?�

�Wait here!� said Sargent. �I�m going in to resign right now.�

Grimly he entered the offices of Business Journals, Incorporated, walked down the narrow corridor between the cubicles, and pushed open Ben O. Chapman�s door.

Chapman stopped pacing his rug. �You, Sargent,� he snapped. �I was just thinking. That wasn�t very loyal of you, making me pay all that money. So you�re fi��

�I quit!� cried Sargent, beating him to it. �And here�s my resignation!�

Whack!

He didn�t wait to see if Chapman went down. He heard the thump and that was enough for him. He walked out of Chapman�s office, to Horace Trotter, who would take him to New York, a city he�d always wanted to see. It was far from Chicago... and perhaps Hester Pelkey could be persuaded to come there.

He thought she could be persuaded.