The innocent act, Manning thought. There's nobody here but us chickens,
boss. He flipped open his suit coat so the badge showed. "We're from
the Federal Fraud Investigating Agency, Mr. Forsythe."
He let it hang there. The usual response was a whitening of the face,
a frightened look, and then a request for credentials. Wheeler was
already reaching into his pocket for a sheaf of them; FFIA men had to
carry enough credentials to sink a battleship. But Forsythe didn't
whiten, didn't look frightened, and didn't ask for proof that they
really represented the FFIA.
"I don't understand, Mister...?"
"Manning." He made himself comfortable in a chair by the desk and
glanced around. It wasn't an impressive layout. Actually little more
than a mailing room. Packages stacked up against the rear wall, ready
for mailing, a wrapping table, and a Pitney-Bowes machine. Crude,
almost too crude.
"How long have you been in the racket, Forsythe?"
Forsythe leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head.
"You might say I've been a huckster all my life, Mr. Manning."
Life-long pitchman, Manning figured coldly. Helped the medicine man
when he was a youngster and ran away with a carnival when he was in
his teens. During the Depression he probably had a set-up on a street
corner selling spot remover, dealt in nylons during the war, and saved
enough to branch out in a big way after the war was over.
"Look, Forsythe, I don't know who put you on to this racket or whether
you're fronting for somebody else or not, but it's no go. Somebody
complains and then we have to crack down on you. We call it fraudulent
use of the mails, con games, or what have you. And an incident
under any one of them will get you ten to twenty at the local state
penitentiary."
Forsythe didn't look at all worried.
"Have there been any complaints?"
Wheeler was standing by the door, carefully snipping the end off of a
cigar. He said, "Not yet. But we like to stop trouble before it starts.
And it costs good money to investigate, to run tests. We do the public
a favor by warning you off the market, and we do you a favor by saving
you a stretch in the little brick house by the river."
"There won't be any trouble," Forsythe said with an earnestness that
seemed oddly out of place. "Actually the carburetor will give you
closer to two hundred miles to the gallon."
"On pure H two O, eh?"
Forsythe nodded cheerfully. "That's right. It's actually H sixteen O
eight, by the way."
* * * * *
Manning felt a vein throb over his right temple. You try to do them
a favor and that's what you got. Wise guys. The whole world was full
of wise guys. All of them wanted to make a million overnight and they
didn't care how they did it. And all of them thought they could get
away with it. Okay, so Forsythe would have to learn the hard way. He
stood up.
"You take cash or check, Forsythe?"
"What for?"
"For a carburetor." Manning paused, "The government will test it and
the government will be the complainant. And I wouldn't advise packing
up and leaving if I were you. We've got ways of finding you."