"Could be," Manning said slowly. "We're investigating him."
"I'm not my brother's keeper, Mr. Manning." The agent laughed, a
little hollowly. "You know how it is. We'll rent to almost anybody who
comes along. They don't always tell us full details of their business
although, believe me, we try to rent to only true Americans."
Manning felt tired.
"We're not chasing commies. This is just a simple case of fraudulent
use of the mails. Nothing that will involve you in any way."
The man dabbed at his forehead with a light blue, silk handkerchief. He
looked a lot more cheerful.
"We'll be glad to cooperate in any way we can."
Manning helped himself to a cigar from the open box on the desk.
"Thanks. You can begin right now. Did Forsythe present any credentials
or references when he rented his office?"
The agent held up his hands.
"We don't require references or credentials, Mr. Manning. They tell us
what business they're in and that's about all we ask them."
"And Forsythe said he was in the manufacturing and sales business,
right?"
"Actually a little more than that. He mentioned something about being
in the antique business, too."
Manning felt incredulous. "Didn't you think it strange that a whole
manufacturing business could fit in an office that was no bigger than
this one, let alone an antique business? His carburetor is made of
metal; it requires stamping, machining, spraying. A whole factory full
of machines would be required!"
The agent started to sweat again.
"I think I told you that we don't ask them detailed questions, Mr.
Manning. In this case it seems obvious that he's using the office only
as a sales outlet. Somebody else supplies him with the carburetors."
Manning bit savagely into the end of his cigar.
"I thought of that. I've had his office shadowed for the last
week. He's had everything else delivered to him--refrigerators and
typewriters and sofas and stoves. But no carburetors."
The agent looked a little smug. "It's a free country, Mr. Manning, he
can order what he wants. And if your men didn't see any carburetors,
then I would start to worry about their reliability. Forsythe must get
his carburetors from somewhere and he must have them delivered."
Manning flushed and stood up to leave. "And if I were you, I'd start to
worry about whom I rented office space to. And I'd start to worry about
the condition I kept my buildings in. I would've sworn that there were
at least a dozen violations of the civic fire ordinance there."
"But really, Manning! I had no...."
Manning started for the door. "Thanks for all the information I didn't
get. And thanks for the cigar."
* * * * *
He stood on the street for a few minutes after leaving the building
agent's office. It was a hot summer day, the only relief being the
slight breeze that blew off the lake. The street was crowded with
men in seer sucker suits, sweltering in the heat and mopping their
foreheads. Young girls in thin blouses and light weight skirts, as
young girls always seemed to do, managed to look cool and fresh.
His last summer, Manning thought slowly. Take a good look and enjoy it
while you can.
He walked slowly towards the Loop, looking at the scenery along the way
as if he had never seen it before. It was a great world, he thought.
But you didn't begin to appreciate it until you found out that one of
these days you weren't going to be around any more.
He stopped in at a cigar store near Madison street.
"Some fine Havanas just came in, Mr. Manning."
There was a time when he had thought about cutting down on smoking. It
didn't make much difference now.
"A half dozen should do it, Jeff."
The clerk wrapped them up. "Any razor blades or shaving cream? And we
got a new order of fountain pens. Guaranteed to last a lifetime without
re-filling."
Manning stuffed the package of cigars into his pocket. "No thanks. I
don't care much for ball-point pens anyway."
The clerk looked a little disappointed. "Pens are kind of hard to move
during summer; guess most people think of them as Christmas presents.
That's what I tried to tell the man who sold them to me. They're not
real ball-points, though."
Guaranteed to last a lifetime, Manning thought suddenly. A lifetime.
Not just for a year or for a solid mile of writing--but a lifetime.
"Let me see one."
It looked like an ordinary pen, the style obviously patterned after a
Parker. There was some engraving on the clip. Manning held it up to the
light and read it. A Forsythe pen.
"How much?"
"Two forty-nine. Good looking pen for that price."
And what did you get, Manning thought, outside of a stainless steel
clip and a fancy plastic barrel? Ten to one it leaked all over you the
first time you clipped it in your pocket.
"Did you try them out before you bought them, Jeff?"
"Sure--worked pretty good, too."
For the first few days, Manning thought sourly. And then, like the one
horse shay, it probably fell apart all at once.
"Wrap one up. And give me a copy of the newspaper."
He took the paper to the reading room of the public library at Randolph
and Michigan and thumbed through it. Wheeler had missed a lot, he
thought. There were Forsythe Carburetors, good for a hundred miles
to the gallon of water; Forsythe pens, good for a lifetime; Forsythe
lipsticks that would last for years; Forsythe hairbrushes with bristles
that never broke.
All everyday items, all with impossible claims, and all attractively
cheap.
Forsythe wasn't doing things in a small way, Manning thought slowly.
But where did he get the goods? And who made them? And if Forsythe was
a front, who for?
* * * * *
Clark Street in the late evening was a canyon of yellow street lights
intermingled with the flicker of red neon. Manning stood in the shadow
of a store front, watching the building across the street. The lights
were out in all the windows; the building was dead.
He walked around the block and came up the alley in back. A cat leaped
silently off a window ledge and Manning smiled to himself. No watch
dogs. The rear door was locked but not barred and a thin sliver of
strong steel inserted between the frame and the door sprung the lock
with a small click. He closed it quietly behind him, listening for any
sounds in the building. There were none.
He picked the lock on the Forsythe office and eased himself in. The
crates and the packages were in the back room, a small filing cabinet
by the window. He opened the cabinet and rifled through the two top
drawers. There was nothing but mail orders from all over the country
addressed to the Forsythe Company. A small but steady volume of
business over a period of about six months.
The bottom drawer was something else again. Invoices between the
Forsythe Company and the Timely Trading Corporation of Oswego City, New
America. Shipments and receipted bills. Manning looked at them blankly.
There wasn't any Oswego City, New America.
And Forsythe didn't pay off in money. He paid off in refrigerators.
And electric stoves.
And furniture.
And sports cars.
It didn't make sense, Manning thought, unless it was some kind of
cover-up.
There was a rattle at the closed door and Manning ducked behind a
crate. The door swung open and Forsythe came in, followed by another
man. Forsythe flicked on the light switch and made himself comfortable
at the desk. The stranger, a younger, somewhat smaller man, glanced
shrewdly around the office.
"You don't have much of a layout here, Forsythe."
Manning watched the stranger carefully. He had the same sort of
detached attitude that Forsythe seemed to have; the attitude you had
when you went to a museum, Manning thought suddenly.
"We do all right," Forsythe said cheerfully. "A volume of half a
million dollars last year."
"You trade right up to the limit, don't you?" the stranger asked
casually.
"Right to the limit. How about you?"
"Not so good. I've got a poor territory. It seems capitalism went out
of style thirty years ago."
Forsythe chuckled. "That's the way it goes when the corporation hands
out territories. You pays your money and you takes your choice." He
paused. "What did you want to see me about?"
* * * * *
The stranger suddenly stood up. Something cold and metallic glittered
in his hand.
"You've got a good territory, Forsythe. Better than you deserve. And
much better than mine."