The spy said, “He’s becoming a writer. He got the inspiration for a story, and he had to start at it right away. He picked up a lot of secondhand furniture, typewriters, filing cases, and all that sort of junk, and had them delivered by taxicab.”
Sergeant Ackley groaned. “You never know whether he’s kidding you or actually slipping something over.”
Ackley groaned again.
There was a subtle tension throughout the offices of the Precision Instrument Designing and Installation Company. Beneath the routine exterior of a smoothly functioning business organization was that strain which manifests itself in surreptitious glances and whispered conferences in the restrooms.
Frank Packerson, editor of the Pidico News, sat in his private office, a pencil in his hand, aimlessly tracing designs on a sheet of paper.
The interoffice communicating system buzzer sounded, and Packerson almost mechanically threw the lever which made the connection. The voice of the girl at the information desk said, “An author is here with a manuscript which he is willing to sell for five hundred dollars to the Pidico News.”
Packerson was startled. “A manuscript — five hundred dollars?”
“Yes.”
“Tell him we don’t buy manuscripts. All our stuff is staff written. Tell him they don’t allow me five hundred dollars for an entire issue.”
“Yes, Mr. Packerson. I told him, but he insisted I should notify you. He also has a gun he wishes to sell.”
“A gun?”
“Yes, sir.”
Packerson was interested. “What sort of gun?”
“He says it’s a genuine Ithabore over-and-under which he’s willing to sell for fifteen dollars.”
“A genuine Ithabore!” Packerson exclaimed. “For fifteen dollars?”
“Yes, sir.”
Gun enthusiast that he was, Packerson could no more resist such a bargain than a baseball fan could turn down a free ticket to the World Series.
“Tell him to come in.”
Packerson had expected some shabby out-at-the-elbows individual with long hair and glittering eyes. He was hardly prepared for the sauve, well-dressed man who entered his office, carrying a briefcase in his right hand and two sole-leather gun cases over his left shoulder.
Instantly suspicious, Packerson said, “Understand, my man, I’m not buying guns from persons whom I know nothing about. I’ll want a complete history of the gun.”
“Oh, certainly,” Lester Leith said. “I’m prepared to give you a bill of sale.”
“I want more than a bill of sale. I’ll want to know something about you. That price is — well, it’s absurd for a genuine Ithabore over-and-under.”
Lester Leith laughed. “Want me to make the price sixty dollars?”
Packerson flushed. “I’m only interested in getting another gun if the price is right. I’d hardly anticipated dealing with a well-dressed stranger who very apparently has two guns for sale. I think you can appreciate my position, Mr... er—”
“Leith,” his visitor said.
“Well, I think you see my position.”
Lester Leith laughed. “As a matter of fact, Mr. Packerson, I am willing to sell this Ithabore cheap because I simply can’t hit a thing with it, whereas I have a Betterbilt that simply knocks ’em dead.”
Packerson shook his head. “I don’t like the Betterbilt. I like an Ithabore over-and-under, without too much drop in the stock.”
Leith said. “You should like this gun.” He opened one of the gun cases, and Packerson gave the gun first a casual inspection, then put it together, tried the lock, swung it up to his shoulder once or twice, and turned to Leith with a puzzled expression. “How much did you say you wanted for this?”
“Fifteen dollars.”
Packerson stared at him suspiciously.
“For reference,” Leith said, “you can ring up my banker.”
Packerson said, “I suppose you know what that gun cost new.”
“Certainly.”
“Then why the fifteen-dollar price?”
Leith hesitated for a moment, then suddenly said, “I’ll be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Packerson. I think there’s a little bulge in the barrel. You can’t see it when you’re inside, but if you’ll step over to the window and let the sun shine along the barrel, you can see it — a peculiar line of half-shadow.”
Packerson walked over to the window, pushed the gun barrel out into the sunlight, studied it thoughtfully. Lester Leith remained at Packerson’s desk, smoking a cigarette.
After a minute of close scrutiny, Packerson turned back to say, “I don’t think— Well, there may be a slight bulge. I would say it was worth more than fifteen dollars, however.”
Leith said, “Well, to tell you the truth, Mr. Packerson, I thought if I’d make the price sufficiently attractive, I could get you to look at my manuscript. I—”
Packerson shook his head emphatically. “We don’t buy any outside material.”
Leith said with dignity, “Under those circumstances, I think I’d prefer to give some other editor an opportunity to look at the gun.”
Packerson’s face colored. “So that’s the game! You want to bribe me to buy a manuscript for five hundred dollars by selling me an Ithabore for about a tenth of what it’s worth. Why, you crook! Get out of here! Go on, take your gun! What sort of man do you think I am, anyway? A cheap bribe like that!”
Lester Leith, summoning what dignity he could muster, picked up his briefcase, swung the sole-leather gun cases over his shoulder and walked out, while Frank Packerson followed him to the door to finish what he had to say.
Lester Leith was just emerging from the elevator when he saw Bernice Lamen step from a bus at the corner and start walking with quick, businesslike steps toward the entrance of the Rust Commercial Building. He waited until she caught his eye.
She stopped to stare at him in astonishment. “What in the world!” she exclaimed.
Leith said, “You look happy.”
“I am. But what in the world are you doing with all the arsenal?” Leith said, “I am in the depths of despondency.”
“Why? What’s the matter?”
“I worked so hard on my story” — Leith sighed — “and now it’s been rejected.”
“Where did you submit it?”
“To the Pidico News. Your editor, Frank Packerson, was uninterested.”
“Good heavens,” she said, “he doesn’t have any money to buy outside manuscripts.”
Leith said, “Money wasn’t the big inducement. I wanted to see my name in print.”
She studied him with a puzzled frown, drawing her finely arched brows into a straighter line. “Are you serious?”
“Never more serious in my life, but let’s not talk about my troubles. What makes you look so happy?”
She said, “I’ve just received a personal apology from Jason Bellview and instructions to return to work.”
“You mean you’ve been exonerated?”
“Well, at least they’ve decided I can go back to work.”
Leith said thoughtfully, “I don’t see that as any cause of jubilation.”
“You would if you were dependent on a salary and if being let out under suspicious circumstances would prevent you from getting a job anywhere else.”
“That bad?” Leith asked.
“That bad, and worse.”
“Under the circumstances,” Leith announced, “we need a drink. You to celebrate, I to recuperate.”
“I’ve got to go to work.”
Leith said, “On the contrary, that is the worst thing you could do.”
“What do you mean?”
“Where’s your sense of independence? Are you going to let them insult you, drag you down to the office of a private detective, grill you, have the police take over, give you the third degree, be smeared with the brush of suspicion, held up to the ridicule of your fellow employees, and then grasp eagerly at the first sop they hand you and rush back to work?”