Frank M. Robinson

“ 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." ”

“ His forehead looked a little shinier than when Manning had first come in.
"I'd like to ask questions about one Harry Forsythe; he's running the Forsythe Carburetor Company in your building on North Clark Street."
The building agent looked cautious. "Is something wrong?"
"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." ”

“ 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. ”

“ Once inside, Manning gave him a cold, official stare. "You Forsythe?"
The man nodded, frowning. "Something wrong?"
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. ”

“ Wheeler looked worried. "Don't ever get too personal about it, Fred. You gotta have an objective viewpoint all the time."
Maybe he was making too much of it, Manning thought coldly. But when everything else went to pot you liked to ... bury yourself in your work. ”

“ Manning looked coldly at the fat man sitting next to him.
"The government's got money; it can afford it."
The fat man shrugged and changed the subject. "How did the biopsy come out?"
"I don't know." Somewhere deep inside Manning a dozen tiny hands plucked a pain nerve. "The doctor will send me a report in a couple of days." The doctor had already told him that morning but he didn't want Wheeler to know. "Let's forget it. Who's on the list this time?"
Wheeler pulled a crumpled newspaper ad out of his pocket. "The Forsythe Company. They make carburetors." ”

“ And a time machine would explain where Forsythe got the carburetors and other goods without having them delivered through the streets, and it explained how he got rid of the stoves and refrigerators and goods that came into his office.
Manning suddenly wished that Forsythe hadn't taken off. The man had something now that would be a sure fire sale. And people needed it desperately, far more than they needed gadgets or carburetors or pens or hairbrushes. ”

“ He dialed Wheeler.
"Ray? How's Forsythe?"
Wheeler's voice was dry.
"I don't know, Fred. His office is cleaned out. He's disappeared. He was gone by the time the cops got to his office last night."
They would have to do the leg work all over again, Manning thought slowly. But it shouldn't be hard to do. Pitchmen always stayed in the same business, even if they had to get a different tent occasionally. ”