She took him in quizzically, estimating. "Possibly _dust_, or _get
lost_, was the term when you were a boy."
Tracy chuckled wryly, "Thanks for the compliment, but I go back to the
days of _beat it_."
In the inner office the Chief looked up at him. "Sit down, Frank. What's
the word? Another exponent of free enterprise, pre-historic style?"
Frank Tracy found a chair and began talking even while fumbling for
briar and tobacco pouch. "No," he grumbled. "I don't think so, not this
time. I'm afraid there might be something more to it."
His boss leaned back in the massive old-fashioned chair he affected and
patted his belly, as though appreciative of a good meal just finished.
"Oh? Give it all to me."
Tracy finished lighting his pipe, flicked the match out and put it back
in his pocket, noting that he'd have to get a new one one of these days.
He cleared his throat and said, "Reports began coming in of house to
house canvassers selling soap for three cents a bar."
"_Three cents a bar?_ They can't manufacture it for that. Will the stuff
pass the Health Department?"
"Evidently," Tracy said wryly. "The salesman claimed it's the same soap
as reputable firms peddle."
"Go on."
"We had to go to a bit of trouble to get a line on them without raising
their suspicion. One of the boys lived in a neighborhood that was being
canvassed for new customers and his wife had signed up. So I took her
place when the salesman arrived with her first delivery--they deliver
the first batch. I let him think I was Bob Coty and questioned him, but
not enough to raise his suspicions."
"And?"
"An outfit selling soap and planning on branching into bread and heavens
knows what else. No advertising. No middlemen. No nothing, as the
salesman said, except standard soap at three cents a bar."
"They can't package it for that!"
"They don't package it at all."
The Chief raised his chubby right hand and wiped it over his face in a
stereotype gesture of resignation. "Did you get his home office address?
Maybe there's some way of buying them out--indirectly, of course."
"No, sir. It seemed to be somewhat of a secret."
The other's eyes widened. "Ridiculous. You can't hide anything like
that. There's a hundred ways of tracking them down before the day is
out."
"Of course. I've got Jerome Wiseman following him in a helio-jet. No use
getting rough, as yet. We'll keep it quiet ... assuming that meets with
your approval."
"You're in the field, Frank. You make the decisions."
The phone screen had lighted up and LaVerne's piquant face faded in.
"The call Mr. Tracy was expecting from Operative Wiseman."
"Put him on," the Chief said, lacing his plump fingers over his stomach.
Jerry's face appeared in the screen. He was obviously parked on the
street now. He said, "Subject has disappeared into this office building,
Tracy. For the past fifteen minutes he's kinda looked as though the
day's work was through and since this dump could hardly be anybody's
home, he must be reporting to his higher-up."
"Let's see the building," Tracy said.
The portable screen was directed in such manner that a disreputable
appearing building, obviously devoted to fourth-rate businesses, was
centered.
"O.K.," Tracy said. "I'll be over. You can knock off, Jerry. Oh, except
for one thing. Subject's name is Warren Dickens. Just for luck, get a
complete dossier on him. I doubt if he's got a criminal or subversive
record, but you never know."
Jerry said, "Right," and faded.
Frank Tracy came to his feet and knocked the rest of his pipe out into
the gigantic ashtray on his boss' desk. "Well, I suppose the next step's
mine."
"Check back with me as soon as you know anything more," the Chief said.
He wheezed a sigh as though sorry the interview was over and that he'd
have to go back to his desk chores, but shifted his bulk and took up a
sheaf of papers.
Just as Tracy got to the door, the Chief said, "Oh, yes. Easy on the
rough stuff, Tracy. I've been hearing some disquieting reports about
some of the overenthusiastic bullyboys on your team. We wouldn't want
such material to get in the telly-casts."
_Lard bottom_, Tracy growled inwardly as he left. Did the Chief think he
liked violence? Did anyone in his right mind like violence?
* * *
Frank Tracy looked up at the mid-century type office building. He was
somewhat surprised that the edifice still remained. Where did the owners
ever find profitable tenants? What business could be so small these days
that it would be based in such quarters? However, here it was.
The lobby was shabby. There was no indication on the list of tenants of
the firm he was seeking, nor was there a porter. The elevator was out of
repair.
He did it the hard way, going from door to door, entering, hat in hand,
apologetically, and saying, "Pardon me. You're the people who sell the
soap?" They kept telling him no until he reached the third floor and a
door to an office even smaller than usual. It was lettered _Freer
Enterprises_ and even as he knocked and entered, the wording rang a
bell.
There was only one desk but it was efficiently equipped with the latest
in office gadgetry. The room was quite choked with files and even a
Mini-IBM tri-unit. The man behind the desk was old-fashioned enough to
wear glasses, but otherwise seemed the average aggressive executive type
you expected to meet in these United States of the Americas. He was
possibly in his mid-thirties and one of those alert, over-eager
characters irritating to those who believe in taking matters less than
urgently.