“Is there any truth in it?” Hooker asks.
“Not a bit.”
“Why did he do it?”
“So he could get free publicity. He handed out a lot of hooey about how-much we were going to spend for advertising. The editor fell for it.”
“Did Mr. Quint expect to do any advertising?”
“Of course not. Why should he if he can get publicity for nothing?”
“My wife tells me your men have enlisted the aid of some Boy Scouts. She says you’re paying them to go around the streets looking over the tires on parked automobiles. When they find a worn tire, they note its position on the machine and send Quint the license number. Do you know anything about that?”
“All about it. The kids get three cents a car. If a sale is made, they get a ten-per-cent commission.”
Hooker turns to his wife. “Is that the work Junior has been doing to earn the money for his twenty-two rifle?”
She nods.
Hooker takes a letter from his pocket. It looks like a million bucks. “My wife,” he says, “brought the letters which she thought would be important. This envelope, without any return address, was outstanding because of the quality of the stationery.”
I know I’m sunk. “Sure, that’s part of the sales scheme. Get a select list of prospects and give ’em something outstanding. That’s the stationery the bank couldn’t afford. That form letter—”
“But this doesn’t seem to be a form letter.”
“That’s the nice part of it. There are only five places for a worn tire on a car; left or right front, left or right rear, and spare. We have a letter for each position. They’re electrically typed. It looks like a personal letter.”
Hooker unfolds the letter. The stationery crinkles with as much authority as a bank note. Pete Quint had worked it out before he went to jail, emphasizing the “you” idea. Hooker doesn’t need to read it to me because I know it by heart, but he reads the first few paragraphs just the same:
“Dear Mr. Hooker: The left rear tire on your ear is just about ready to go — BANG!!
If it goes out on the road, you’ll be delayed. If you’re going fast, you may get hurt. In any event, you don’t want to wait for a blowout.
Vacation time is here and—”
Hooker stares up at me over the tops of his spectacles. I’m sore. I say, “All right, what’s wrong with it? Your son wants a twenty-two rifle. We give him a chance to earn it. He’ll value it a lot more that way than if you’d bought it for him. If you’d acted on that letter, the tire on your wife’s coupe wouldn’t have folded in the middle of the grade and—” I can’t think of just what goes on from there.
Mrs. Hooker laughs. “And you could have got here half an hour sooner!”
That stops me. Then I see they’re both laughing. Hooker’s expression changes when he laughs. The old guy looks human. He looks like a man who has worries of his own and isn’t always certain that The Dame is with him. He looks... he looks like Santa Claus! He says, “Well, I guess I’d better telephone and get your partner out of jail.”
I can see, from the way he gets up, that he’s tired. He goes out and his wife says to me, the words coming out all at once, as though she had to confide in somebody, “Duncan’s been trying to undermine him with the directors for a long time. As soon as Burt left on his vacation, Duncan made an issue of this Fox loan. The directors are having a meeting tomorrow. That’s why I drove in. Oh, I was so hoping there’d be some truth in that rumor about the tire company opening a branch in Robinsvale.”
Pete Quint could have thought of something to say then. I couldn’t.
I get back the next morning. I can hardly find the tire company for the ears that are parked in front. The redhead gives a squeal and smears lipstick all over me. She’s so happy I can feel her body tremble through the print dress.
It’s ten minutes before I can get Pete to stop long enough between sales talks to even give me a tumble.
Just then a soft-spoken bird in gray butts in and wants to meet Mr. Quint. Pete spears him with a handshake.
The stranger says he’s Frank Logwitt, general manager of the Reclaimed Tire Company. He’s interested in the marked copies of the newspapers and the rush of orders from Robinsvale.
Pete is two paragraphs ahead of him. He pours words over him like salad dressing over a tomato. Pete takes him out and shows him the plant, but Logwitt doesn’t get near enough to meet Fox. Fox is too busy.
Logwitt asks, “Are you busy like this all the time, Mr. Quint?”
Quint studies his watch. “No,” he says. “Business doesn’t pick up until afternoon. This isn’t typical.”
Pete and Logwitt move off. A guy with whiskers comes up to me and says, “You’re one of the new salesmen. My name’s Stimson. I’m a director in the Smith National. I understand Fox’s loan was increased after Fox was in default and—”
Pete is selling Logwitt. It’s up to me. I remember the Pete technique. I grab the guy’s hand and pump it up and down. “Congratulations,” I say. “Look what you have done with your wisdom in using your money to build up a business in your community. You, Mr. Stimson, are in a measure responsible for this magnificent showing. The gentleman over there is the general manager of the Reclaimed Tire Company. He’s talking with my partner about putting in a factory branch and opening a whale of an account at your bank.”
It wasn’t so good as Pete could have done, but it had the Quint touch. I stop to look at his face, and know The Dame is hack.
Fifteen minutes later we’re all in the gas hog, headed for the bank — Pete, Logwitt, Stimson and me.
You’d think there was a funeral at the bank. People are walking around on tiptoe. Stimson leads us back to the president’s office and says for us to wait there. He goes through to another office and is in such a hurry he forgets to close the door. He crosses that room, opens another door, and I hear Hooker’s voice, calm and patient, but sort of tired, saying, “...felt that all that was lacking was sales ability and additional capital. I found these salesmen had ability, nerve and the stamina to fight against discouraging reverses. That they didn’t lie to me vouched for their honesty. Their physical condition was proved by the fact that” — and for a minute old Hooker’s voice sounded wistful — “they had both had onions for breakfast!”
I hear Stimson say, “Just a minute, gentlemen — just a minute,” and then the door closes.
Ten minutes later Stimson comes to the door. His grin is so wide I think he’s going to swallow his whiskers.
“Won’t you gentlemen come in,” he asks, “and meet our directors?”
We get up.
Duncan is coming out as we go in. He tries to walk past us with dignity, but it’s no dice. Pete is cakewalking along in the rear with his right arm cocked out, bowing and smiling at The Dame.
Duncan starts past on his right.
I hear the partition creak as Pete’s shoulder slams him into it.
“Make way,” Pete says — “make way for The Dame!”