Carl was crossing the street when he heard the explosion. He looked up as bits of glass tinkled at his feet.
Murder Most Convenient
by Gilbert Ralston
A salesman is an individual who will repeat ad nauseam that he has something decidedly excellent to sell. But, of course, salesmen must sell themselves first. This is not easy. Because this product, you see, is frequently somewhat dubious.
My name is Jonathan Keeler Wainright. I am forty-six years of age, a widower, at present in the best of health.
What follows is the truth. I shall not embellish it, simply stating the facts as they occurred chronologically as I remember them.
Let us begin then at noon on the twenty-fifth of June, at the lunchroom counter of the bowling alley of a town called Three Forks, a typical California suburban development, without dignity, or a decent restaurant. I sat at the end seat of the counter, steeped in contemplation of happier times, picking occasionally at a weary slab of glutinous apple pie. I have always taken pride in my appearance and I must have seemed an outre and vaguely foreign figure in this decidedly inelegant lunchroom.
“More coffee, Mister?”
The gutteral croak broke in on my reverie, sending tiny flames of shock up my spine as I looked up at the counterman. I shook my head emphatically.
“That’ll be a dollar thirty.”
I paid the proffered check, tucking the odd two dimes under the saucer, the counterman palming them with a mumbled grunt of thanks. He was peering curiously at me as I fumbled my wallet back into my pocket, my hands clumsy with the ache to snap his turkey neck.
“Ain’t you Ray Goetz?” he said.
I shook my head again.
“Funny, you look like him, sorta.”
I forced a cordial smile, although the question started me. Coincidence, I thought. Use it. Use it.
“You sellin’ somethin’?” he said, making a desultory effort to clean the counter with a distasteful piece of cloth.
“Argus Pools,” I told him.
“What’s that?”
“Swimming pools.”
“Goetz building one?”
“Yes.” The counterman riveted his gaze on me, birdlike in his interest. “You sure you ain’t a relative or somethin’?”
“No.”
“Too bad you ain’t.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Goetz is loaded, that’s why. Load — ed!” He returned to his blue plate specials, pleased with his knowledge of the great.
It has always been my habit to consciously organize myself, to gather myself, as it were, before entering a commercial fray, making a soldier’s survey of the terrain. I did so, before the flamboyant facade of the Goetz Realty Company. A small black beetle rested upon the walk before me. I crushed it carefully with my foot; then I made my way up the walk and through the entrance door, my bearing confident and crisp.
There were no tenants at the several desks in the large room, lending it a sterile and impermanent air, only the muted whine of the air-conditioner alive in the summer afternoon. I stood there for a full minute before my eyes became accustomed to the gloom; finally, I was able to read the words “Ray Goetz” on the middle panel of a door leading off, sunlight bright beneath it. I was forced to gather myself again, the empty room playing on my nerves. Ten deep breaths, I told myself. Then knock. Low voice. Confidence. My hands still shook a little when I rapped on the door.
“Come in.”
I stood in the doorway after I had opened it, staring at the man behind the massive desk. “I’m Jonathan Wainright,” I said. “Argus Pools.”
“Figures,” Goetz replied. He seemed annoyed at my hesitancy, at the way I was staring at him. “What’s eating you?”
“Someone told me that we look alike. I’m startled to find it’s true. I beg your pardon.”
Goetz scowled at me, examining me from head to foot, finally rising. “Have a chair, Wainright,” he said, affably enough. “Over there in the light. Turn your face.” He circled me then like a judge at a stock show, making little clucking noises in his throat before he sat down at his desk again. “Heard about things like this,” he said. “Never thought one of them would happen to me.”
“It is surprising, isn’t it? The Resemblance.”
We were almost the same height and coloring, except that my hair was grayed somewhat more than his. A caricature of me, the features almost matched, except that they were somewhat stronger in his case, lips and eyes almost identical. His voice was not unlike my own, except that it was uncultured, a quality exaggerated by the crude patois of his speech.
“I quit being surprised a long time ago, Wainright,” he said, “but this shakes me some. It really does.” He followed my glance around the room. Then he said, “Jazzy little dump, isn’t it? Monument to the great American Chump.” He smiled crookedly, still scrutinizing me.
“Chump?”
“That great body of installment buyers known as the common man. My dear departed customers. The great big beautiful unwashed public. The chumps.” He was preening himself, spreading out the feathers of his superiority for me to examine.
“It is a handsome office.” I said, looking at the black leather divan, the prints on the wall, the heavy bronze lamp in the corner.
“Not bad for a Chicago street rat,” he replied, obviously pleased by my flattering appreciation. “Saw one like it in a book. Hired a character to match it for me.” He reached with his left hand for a cigar out of the silver humidor behind him, lighting it clumsily from an ornate desk lighter, spitting the bitten tip onto the beige rug. (I particularly despise cigar smoke, clouds of which billowed around me as he continued.) “Fellow tried to pad a couple of bills. So I stilled him for his. He’s still hollerin’. Guess he should have read the motto there on the desk.” He pointed out a small brass plaque that proclaimed: “Do Unto Others Before They Do Unto You.” I read it, knowing then that this was the enemy, always and forever the enemy.
“You own the pool company?” His words were measured now, the professional, preliminary opening skirmish.
“I’m the sales and service representative.”
He looked musingly at me. “Salesman,” he said. “For a pool company.” He went on, mouthing his expensive cigar, the tobacco a soaked horror against his lips. “Here we sit. Twins. One up. One down. How old are you?”
“Forty-six.” I was hypnotized by his rudeness.
“I’m forty-seven.”
“You go to college?”
“Yes.”
“Got a degree?”
“Bachelor of Fine Arts.”
“Married?”
“No. Not married.”
“That’s the way it goes. You got a college degree and expensive tastes and I got four million dollars. You have to sell pools and I retire and have a lovely wife.”
Fortunately, I have learned to control myself. I ignored what he’d said and came right to the point of my visit. “I have the contract for you to sign, Mr. Goetz,” I said. “For the pool.”
He looked sharply at me, a speculative look in his hard blue eyes. “What contract?” he said.
“Your secretary sent me the order. In a letter. I have it here.” I drew out a copy of the letter and laid it before him.
“Don’t have a secretary any more. Not here, anyway. Sold out the business two weeks ago.”
I fought the feeling of disaster, knowing he was the sort who would pounce on any weakness like a cat, keeping the signs of my agitation out of my face. I remembered the order in the mail, the endless pressure from the home office to make a sale, the risk I had taken in accepting the order without a contract.