The fat man handed it over and Manning ran his eyes down the ad. It
was the usual ad, complete with the enthusiastic testimonials signed
by "A. Z." of Salt Lake City and "Mrs. D. F." of Podunk Corners. After
running end around all the glowing adjectives in the body of the
ad, you got the idea you could get a hundred miles from a gallon of
ordinary tap water when you used the Forsythe Carburetor.
The trade name was bad, of course. Simply, the "Forsythe Carburetor."
Not the "Jiffy" or the "E-Z" or the "Little Marvel." But the price
was right in there. Three forty-nine, with a double-your-money-back
guarantee if not absolutely satisfied. The typical gyp ad. Something
that promised a hell of a lot in the way of savings and mileage with a
low enough price so the suckers would be willing to risk it.
"Let's go." Manning got out of the car, on the street side because of
the high curb, and glanced at the numbers on the buildings. A few doors
down, on the other side.
* * * * *
The building was a three story brick, and old. The office of Forsythe
Carburetor Company was one flight up, at the end of a hallway where the
wooden flooring creaked and groaned and threatened to give way at any
moment. The lettering on the door was neat and precise; there was no
buzzer. Manning knocked, an authoritative type of knock.
The man who opened the door was in his early sixties, Manning judged.
Maybe a little more, maybe a little less. A big man, with thick
shoulders and a head of black hair that was just turning to white and a
friendly face with just enough lines in it to show it had been around.
You got the idea that being a pitchman was second nature, that he had
been in the sales racket for a long time.
"Mind if we go in?"
The big man shrugged easily. "Sure, come on in. Didn't think any
customers would call personally."