“Some men cannot resist the impulse to have just one more drink,” he would say to some unhappy housewife with bitter lines about her mouth, watching her face for clues. If the lips tightened, the eyes widened with a hint of tears, he had the secret of her visit. If the expression remained blank he continued smoothly, “But that, fortunately, is not the case with your husband.” Then he would fish in other waters — blondes, cards, the ponies... Soon they would be spilling everything to him, convinced that he had read their innermost thoughts and secrets.
The afternoon of the next day a young girl came in. But she was not innocent. Nick could tell when they had had experience.
His knowing eyes estimated her. Straw-colored hair, small greedy mouth, high-school senior ring, good clothes. When she opened her purse to pay him he glimpsed a rouge compact and a diamond ring, the stub of a railroad ticket to Kansas City, and a scrap of paper with the address, in masculine handwriting, of one of that city’s shadier hotels. It was as though she had presented her immediate history to him written down in a copybook.
He said, “Sit down, dear.” He thought of the Sheriff and his hardworking community of decent God-fearing people and laughed inwardly. “You are the affectionate type; your warm generous nature gives you away. I see someone who loves you. But wait. I see another woman at his side. The man is married, is he not?”
The girl’s eyes filled with fear. “How do you know?”
“Nothing is veiled from Mirza Baba. Shall I tell you more?” From outside sounded the cries of the barkers, “Hurry, hurry, hurry!” and the groaning of the carousel organ and the snap-snapping of the cheap rifles in the shooting gallery. The girl nodded silently.
“I see a train ride. You are alone and nervous. You are walking along a street in a big city. You come to a hotel. There you meet your lover. The two of you go inside...”
The girl’s moan interrupted him and she appeared on the point of collapse. “Oh, God, you’ve found out. My father will kill me if he finds out.”
Her story came pouring from her. Her name was Clyde Vroom. A much older married man in the town had fallen in love with her. She had wanted pretty things. He had given her a diamond ring, which she had never dared wear, and other gifts. He had painted a glowing picture of the wonderful time they would have together in the big city, and she couldn’t resist his invitation to spend a week-end there with him. She had told her father she was going to visit a girl friend in a neighboring town.
Nick was doing arithmetic. The ring must have cost nearly a thousand dollars, the other gifts several hundred. Where would a man in a small town lay his hands on that kind of money without his wife or someone finding out? He asked, “What was his name, dear?” It was a mistake. If he had kept quiet or prodded her some more it would have slipped out.
She was on her feet, her little mouth twisted with fear, her eyes wide with terror. “Oh, God! You’ll find out if I stay here any more. You’ll read it in my mind...” She snatched her purse and fled from the booth.
Nick went to the entrance and watched her panicky passage down the midway. He gazed at the mingling of farmers and villagers out for a holiday. He wondered what other secrets were to be dredged out from behind those bland, smooth faces, what other guilts smoldered beneath denim, seersucker, dimity, or poplin.
He saw June Purvey standing near the frozen custard stand, her dark unhappy eyes trying to catch his. She probably had been waiting there all day, watching.
Nick signaled to June Purvey with a jerk of his head and went back inside. A moment later she came in. She plucked at his soiled wrapper, crying, “Oh, Mr. Baba... Have you found out who did it?” Her voice shook with strain and anguish.
He replied, “Nope,” and then quickly corrected himself, “Mebbe. The psychical aura is kinda confused. I gotta git more impressions. I see a figure but there is a veil in front of it.” Then abruptly changing his tone, “You know a. girl named Clytie Vroom?”
June nodded, puzzled. “Yes. I went to school with her.”
“Know who her feller is?”
June thought... “I don’t think she has one, a steady I mean.” She blushed suddenly. “I think maybe the Sheriff is sweet on her. I’ve seen him walking her home from the bank several times. Clytie works at the bank, you know.” Then June drew in her breath sharply crying, “Oh... but...”
“The Sheriff’s married,” concluded Nick. “Never mind; it probably don’t mean nothing. You run along. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”
The next day was Sunday and unbearably hot. Although the fairgrounds were crowded, Nick gave only a few desultory readings and mostly sat waiting in the stifling booth rolling Bull Durham cigarettes, thinking of the man in the county jail waiting to be hanged by the neck until dead and wondering if it could really be pinned on the Sheriff. He daydreamed with vicious satisfaction of unmasking the man who had called them all rats and scoundrels, and singled him out for abuse.
Toward late afternoon Nick heard voices outside the curtain closing the entrance and pricked up his ears. Many workable clues could be mined listening to the snatches of talk between two people before one of them came in, from, “Aw, I dare you. I will if you will,” to such admissions as, “Jim would be furious if he knew I had gone to a fortuneteller,” exposing the timid wife and the domineering husband.
A woman’s voice said, “Vulgar fraud. It oughtn’t to be allowed.”
The man’s: “Oh, I suppose it is amusing. I’d like to see just how far these fakers go.”
The woman’s (with a snort): “Really, Mr. C. If you can’t find something better to spend hard-earned money on...”
The man’s: “Maybe he’ll tell me how to invest and make a fortune.”
The woman’s: “Samuel Chinter! That I should five to see the day when you patronized a fortuneteller.”
And the man’s, finally: “My dear Essie. I see that you are still far from plumbing the more tortuous depths of my character. If you are embarrassed, wait for me at the Ladies Aid Booth.”
Nick indexed mentally: Businessman, but his wife holds one end of the purse strings. Would probably enjoy a fling if he could get it. And he was trying to remember where he had heard the name before. Then it came to him as the curtain parted. Samuel Chinter, president of the Farmer’s Bank, came in.
He sat down opposite the seedy-looking little man in the gown and ridiculous turban. His thin mouth parted in an amiable enough smile as he asked, “Can you make money out of this sort of thing, my friend?”
Nick replied. “Yup. Or I wouldn’t be doing it.” He was studying the tight, too-smooth face. The banker’s skin looked as if it were made of elastic and had been stretched over wood. He noted the lines at each corner of the bloodless mouth and the gleam in the small, butternut-shaped eyes.
“Well, then, my friend, Mirza Baba, if that is your name, supposing you tell me something about myself.”
Nick said, “Two bits,” and waited, watching while the banker took a leather purse from his left hip pocket. This surprised the cold reader since most men kept their wallets on the right. Chinter laid the coin on the table saying, “Always the best course in any business. Trust no one.”
Nick decided he wanted to be rid of him quickly. He said perfunctorily, “I see an office of marble and glass. There is a large mahogany desk. A brass sign on it says, ‘President.’ ”
“Excellent, my friend. Of course you know who I am. Everyone in Thackerville does. Go on.”