Dr. Pepper wore a small fedora with the brim turned down. His suit was a couple of sizes too large, an aged gray outfit over a narrow gray and white tie and a dingy white shirt with frayed collar. He appeared to be in his late forties. His face was blank, tending toward narrowness, and his eyes were dark and still. Although at first he seemed unremarkable in every way, I began to note touches of professionalism about him. His deadpan expression was classically intact, put together from a strip of silent film, frame by frame. His speech was flat and rickety, hard-working in its plainness, the voice of an actor delivering monologues from a rocking chair. Of course I had the advantage of knowing who he was. Also I was fairly certain I'd seen him before and heard either that voice or an approximation. Perhaps the oddest thing about Dr. Pepper was that he didn't wear glasses. He had the kind of face that needed glasses to be complete, old rimless spectacles worn low on the nose, but the absence of this final detail only confirmed his elusiveness and skill; one was inclined to fill in the face, provide a finish to the comic proposition. A single thing connected all others – the invisible mannerisms, the craft, the tiìghtfisted humor – and this one threading element was danger. Dr. Pepper had lived among dangerous men, worked in hazardous circumstances, and his eccentricity, his distance from the axis, had its origins in the basic machine-like pressures that bear on a man who is unable to think or live in accordance with the central themes of the law. Even his appearance, ordinary as it was, suggested some acquaintance with illegality. More than anything else he looked like a man released from prison in 1947 in Joliet, Illinois. It would have been difficult to say what crime he'd been convicted for. He had the gift of putting distance between himself and his applauders. My own tenuous guesses would have included child-molesting, embezzlement, the defrauding of widows.
"I'll tell you, Buck. This stuff they've come up with is not the kind of product a man like me is likely to dismiss. I give them points for initiative. I have sources and these sources confirm what I've long suspected. This isn't some kind of rinky-dink schoolboy caper. No way, manner, shape or form. This is a weighty affair we're involved in here. This drug is some kind of extreme substance. This is a pressing matter and deserves our closest attention."
"I've figured that out for myself," I said. "Everybody in the free world wants to bid. There's a group on the Coast wants to bid. They're very anxious to bid. There's a group in Europe also wants to bid, also very anxious. That's Watney's group. Great Britain and Europe. I haven't heard from the Japanese yet. Of course Hanes may have heard. He's out there with the product."
"Watney first swam into my ken in Boston," Dr. Pepper said. "Sure, Watney and that crowd of his. I was bumping into a whole lot of crank behavior about then. There was a man there that could imitate a sewing machine. There was a pair of girls, Lenore and Doreen, they come up from right off the street, quack-quack, sisters they were, Lenore's the fat one, see, and they're trying to sell me a radio that gets Perth, Australia. I'd just finished manufacturing and dealing off I won't say how many dollars worth of shiny black capsules in bulk, posing as my own sales manager. There were any number of stunts being pulled that night. The sewing machine guy was being hypnotized by a cousin of Watney's that was making his first trip here and refused to leave the hotel for fear of being lashed to the fender of a car and taken north for resale to a lumber operation. At that time in Boston stories of abduction in the night were rife. There was a guy there as I recall, Montaldo, a promoter and manager who on the side controlled the entire orchid business north of Braintree right up to the border, for whatever that's worth. Watney himself was tripping in a unique and interesting manner. There was a kitchenette in the place, just the bare essentials, and Watney takes an egg and places it whole and intact on a frying pan, no fire going, no heat coming up, and he stands there waiting for a fried egg to appear and he just can't understand why it won't. Nobody knew who I was. I was drifting through the suite, witness to any number of propositions. The equipment man for some local group, name of Mulderick, I recall, he.'s selling credit cards, driver's licenses, army discharge papers, transcripts from Harvard Business School. A kid with his arm in a cast tells me the cast has a secret compartment for transporting dope and offers me the plans for twenty dollars. I'm diverted by all these signs of enterprise. I find it an occasion of mild diversion with the sole and single exception of the hypnotism routine which I can tell is being done without any real feel for the subject, which is a subject I happen to know something about, being the recipient of one of the few legitimate degrees in hypnotology ever given out by an accredited college in this country. Watney by this time has placed a call to his house outside London and finds himself in the regrettable situation of not being at home to answer the telephone. He's trying to call himself, ding-ding, and nobody's picking up the phone. The result is fear and dread. He sits on the floor weeping real tears into the phone. Oh, it's a crisis of no small proportion. The guy is in the grip of blackest anxiety. Absolute terror in his eyes. Oh, he's terror-stricken, no doubt about it, ding-ding-ding in his ear. This was Watney when he first swam into my ken, long before he picked up the shield of the businessman."
"Tell me if I'm right," I said. "You were here the night there was a party here. Whole place full of people. You smoked a pipe. You were the professor of latent history. You talked about that a while. Tell me if I'm right about that."
"Ill tell you why I was here, Buck. I was here to check on the young lady's credentials. At that point I didn't know the product was in your possession. But I did know the identity of Happy Valley's chief agent. So being I was in town and being I knew about the little shindig through various local sources, I thought I'd drop on by. I wanted to make the young lady's acquaintance, get the first foothold in the bargaining process. Unhappily, never got to say a word to her. She retired early, faded away in the midst of all that smoke."
"I remember."
"Just scouting out the premises. I like to do that, earliest opportunity. Same as I was doing when you and I first met."
"We met the same night you came to meet Opel."
"Earlier," he said. "I knew you'd been in touch with Happy Valley. Wanted to scout out the whole neighborhood, including your place. Just a quick look around, swish-swish, in and out, to get my bearings."
"When was this?"
"I was the brush salesman. I came around with a sample case and some patter about mutilation and exchange rates."
"Gaw-damn."
"An old, a very old routine of mine. Thought I'd dust it off and try it, being I was here in town."
"I was told you didn't travel anymore," I said.
"I'll tell you how word got out on that. I leaked that particular word. Have to keep people off balance. If you let people maintain their balance, there's any number of things likely to happen, the likeliest of which is that you lose the edge. Operations of this kind are a matter of balance and edge. I still travel. I like slipping in and out. Like corning to New York four, five times a year."
"Not me," Menefee said. "I have to load up on dope every time we come to New York. I stoke myself like a coal-burning engine. New York is too real. It's just about the realest thing there is in the observable universe."