“Good enough, I’ll guess.”
Ten minutes later Johnny showed the attendant two objects that had once been shoes. The uppers were cracked and worn, the toe of one shoe had a half inch split and the soles of both had become loosened. In one there was a hole clear through.
“How much?” Johnny asked.
The attendant had the grace to blush. “Why, ah, where did you find those?”
“In the barrel. Not very good, are they?”
“We’re supposed to sort them out before we put them on sale,” said the clerk. “We make it a rule to sell only wearable merchandise.”
“Do you think these are wearable?”
“Well, I suppose there’s some wear in them...”
“Look,” said Johnny. He took hold of the sole of one of the shoes, yanked suddenly and ripped it halfway down. “Is it wearable now?”
“No, but you—”
“I know,” cut in Johnny. “But what would you say they were worth before I did?”
“I’m supposed to get fifty cents a pair, but—”
“That’s a deal,” said Johnny, “if you’ll wrap them up-in a newspaper.”
The clerk wrapped them and then there was some difficulty about making change for the ten dollar bill, but it was finally managed by going next door to the drugstore. At length, Johnny was back on Division Street, with a newspaper-wrapped parcel under his arm.
He crossed Milton and looked apprehensively off to the right in the direction of Oak Street a couple of blocks away, but continued on up Division. A few minutes later he came to the plant of the John B. Croft Shoe Company, a modern six-story brick building. He entered.
The reception room was lined with pine paneling and had a nice pine desk in one corner behind which sat an attractive redheaded girl. Two men were seated in leather armchairs, apparently awaiting the pleasure of Croft executives.
“Mr. Croft,” Johnny said to the receptionist. “John B.”
“You have an appointment?”
“No,” said Johnny. “I have no appointment.”
“Mr. Croft never sees anyone without an appointment.”
“Tell him that Mr. Fletcher is calling.”
“You’re a personal friend?”
“No.”
“Then I’m afraid it wouldn’t be of any use for me to tell him. Mr. Croft never sees anyone without an appointment.”
“Tell him that Mr. Fletcher wants to see him.”
“If you could tell me the nature of your business...”
“Personal.”
“But you just said that you didn’t know him.”
“I don’t, but my business is personal. Tell him...”
The redhead winced and picked up her phone. “Just a moment, I’ll see if his secretary will see you...” She spoke into her phone. “Miss Williams, there’s a man here insists on seeing Mr. Croft. He says it’s personal and... yes, I know, but could you come out?” She hung up. “Miss Williams will be out.”
Miss Williams came presently. She was short and stout and wore a pince-nez. “You want to see Mr. Croft?” she asked loftily. “What is it about?”
“I told this beautiful redheaded young lady that my business with Mr. Croft was personal.”
“I’m Mr. Croft’s confidential secretary. I can’t interrupt him unless you tell me the nature of your business.”
Johnny said, firmly: “You know all about Mr. Croft’s affairs, eh? Well, just go in and tell him that Mr. Fletcher is here and wants to see him. Fletcher. F-l-e-t-c-h-e-r. Just tell him Fletcher and tell him to think hard. And tell him I’ll wait three minutes. No more. Got that, girlie? The name is Fletcher and I’ll wait three minutes.”
The confidential secretary looked at Johnny startled, then realized that she was wasting precious seconds and hurried off. She returned in two minutes and forty-five seconds. She held open the door.
“Will you come in, please?”
Johnny went down a wide hall, into a reception room at the end. The stout secretary hurried up from behind him and opened a paneled door.
Johnny went in.
John B. Croft’s office was as large as Harry Towner’s, but instead of teakwood, he favored dark mahogany. He was a little man — little, fat and balding. He was perspiring lightly.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Fletcher?” he asked, a bit nervously.
Johnny nodded, crossed the room and sat down in a leather-covered chair some five feet from the shoe manufacturer. He placed the newspaper parcel carefully on his lap and looked at John B. Croft.
John B. Croft cleared his throat, coughed and cleared his throat a second time. “I, ah, I’m afraid I can’t place you, Mr. ah, Fletcher, isn’t it?”
“Fletcher,” said Johnny.
Mr. Croft concentrated hard and his face showed a little more perspiration. “What is, ah, the nature — I mean, what did you want to see me about?”
Johnny waited about thirty seconds, then said quietly: “You’ve got a very nice business here, Mr. Croft.”
Mr. Croft wiped his forehead with the back of a pudgy hand. “Shall we, ah, uh, come to the point, Mr. Fletcher? I don’t imagine you came here to talk about the shoe business.”
Johnny pursed up his lips into a great pout and held it a moment. Then he carefully picked up the parcel from his lap and broke the string. He folded the string and put it in his pocket. Mr. Croft’s eyes were glued upon the package.
Johnny opened the paper cautiously, picked up one of the ancient battered shoes, then the other. He rose from his chair, stepped to Mr. Croft’s desk and placed the shoes carefully upon it. The shoe manufacturer stared at the shoes a long moment, looked at Johnny, then back at the shoes and finally again at Johnny. There was an inquiry in his eyes.
“Shoes,” said Johnny.
Croft ran the tip of his tongue about his lips. “I... I don’t understand.”
“Look at them.”
Croft reached out a hand, hesitated, then touched one of the shoes gingerly. Since it didn’t explode in his face, he picked up the shoe and stared at it. He shot a look at Johnny, then looked back at the shoe. He touched the sole that was pulled away from the uppers and then suddenly switched the shoe around and looked at the inside of the heel.
“A Croft,” he said tentatively.
“A Croft shoe,” agreed Johnny.
A drop of perspiration fell from Mr. Croft’s face to the back of his hand, causing him to twitch.
“Feel the counters,” suggested Johnny.
Mr. Croft felt them. “Broken down.”
“Pretty badly,” agreed Johnny.
“I... I don’t get the point,” said Croft, nervously.
Johnny reached into his side pocket and bringing out his two sample counters, placed them carefully beside the battered wrecks of Croft shoes.
“Counters,” he said.
Mr. Croft put down the shoe, picked up the counters. He felt them, looked questioningly at Johnny. Johnny pursed up his lips again.
“You never heard my name, Mr. Croft?” he asked, quietly.
“N-no, no, I don’t think so. At least I can’t remember. I... I have a bad memory for names and faces.”
“I guess you have, Mr. Croft.” Johnny took the order blanks from his pocket, unfolded them and carefully removed the creases. Then he spread the blanks out on Mr. Croft’s desk. Mr. Croft took one startled look at them and returned his gaze to Johnny’s face.
Johnny nodded slowly. “I’d like to sell you some counters, Mr. Croft.”
“Harry Towner,” Croft whispered.
“I beg your pardon?”
“How many?” exclaimed Croft, flicking sweat from his face, with a shaking hand.
“Oh, about ten barrels of 2 MOXO and...” Johnny hesitated, “say, ten barrels of 2 MOXOO... Could I use your pen?”
“S-sure...”
Johnny got up, took Mr. Croft’s ball pen from the desk set and wrote out the order. He handed the pen to Croft. “Now, if you’ll just sign.”