“The secret?” McCann asked.
Mr. Russell was a convincing man. He could make you see how the law of averages always worked out, how the whole thing was mathematical. He could tell the crew now that a hundred thousand electric refrigerators would be sold in the city that summer. All over, people would be looking at Jarrett’s newspaper display, and wishing they had one. There was the market; all the crew had to do was bring it into the open. If they rang enough doorbells—
Joe thought that perhaps he hadn’t been ringing enough doorbells. The crew canvassed in the morning, from nine to twelve, because the housewives had their husbands and kids out of the way then, and were nearly always at home, cleaning the house up. Mr. Russell, from his wide experience, knew it was the best time to get them to answer the door. Afternoons were no good. They were taking a nap, then, or out to the movies — they rarely answered rings. So afternoons the crew hung around the store, or followed up earlier prospects, or even called on friends, for Mr. Russell could show you that if they were good friends they’d be only too glad to help you. Some afternoons, if you were worried about your wife, and about a bankbook that had less than eighty dollars in it, you might have done the thing Joe Nolan did. You might have gone out and canvassed alone, to make sure that you’d ring enough doorbells.
The second afternoon Joe did that, he rang the Cramers’ doorbell. It was a porched brick house, one of a row of porched brick houses in a quiet suburban street. The first moment, after Mrs. Cramer opened the door, went like all the others — the countless others. Mrs. Cramer took the folder and the cards he held out, said curtly, “Not interested,” and started to close the door. Then for some reason, looking at his face, she stopped.
She was a tall woman, dark and thirty, with sullen black eyes and a narrow sullen mouth. There was something odd about the way she looked at him, as if she weren’t listening to his words, as if she were puzzled by something about him. But Joe was too busy talking to pay much attention to that — he scarcely noticed it, absorbed in the effort of remembering Mr. Russell’s words of advice, and how they should always harp on economy, economy, economy, when they spoke to women. He wasn’t quite sure that it was the right method to adopt with Mrs. Cramer; she didn’t seem to be listening to him at all. But Mr. Russell, after all, knew his business, because Mrs. Cramer admitted, when he’d finished, that she’d been thinking of buying a refrigerator; they needed one; if he came to talk to her husband some evening that week perhaps they could reach an agreement.
They didn’t, not that first night. William Frederick, Mr. Cramer, was a dark man just his own size, only two or more years older. He had a clipped mustache, and horn-rimmed glasses, with an expression in the eyes behind them that Joe couldn’t place. Fright, he might have said, if that hadn’t been absurd. Once, indeed, turning suddenly with his big leather salesbook, he saw them staring at each other silently, with a touch of amazement. But Joe put that down to his nerves; he was shaky all the time he was talking. The rich, telling phrases of Mr. Russell, so effective and subtly eloquent in imaginary interviews, creaked now, and seemed to sprawl out flatly before him.
But Mr. Cramer soon became friendly; he made Joe a highball, and asked him about his work. He supposed that the salesmen turned in their list of prospects at the store, so that their manager could check them every so often, and find out how they followed up their openings. Wasn’t that the way they worked? He didn’t know until Joe told him what some stores did — waited until a fellow had supplied them with a lot of leads, and then fired him before he could make the sale. With the names and addresses in the file, the manager got the credit, and the sale; the store saved the commission. Mr. Cramer nodded. His name, then, wouldn’t be turned in by Joe?
Joe grinned slightly.
“Not until I make the sale — if I do.”
Mr. Cramer assured him that he would make it. In a week or so they’d be ready to buy, and no one but Joe would get their order. At nine, when Joe left, he walked out with him to the porch and talked a moment there. Fenner & Lisle’s employed him — the wholesale grocers. Sometime, he thought, they’d need an accountant, and he would keep his ears open for Joe. That is, if he’d like a salaried job again.
Looking up at him, Joe could only stutter. If something like that — William Frederick Cramer pulled away from him, his face gleaming in the shadow. It wasn’t, he muttered, at all certain; he shouldn’t bank on it, or excite his wife about something that might never come to pass. He shouldn’t tell her a word about it — not until it was definite. Women built their hopes so high that they were crushed if something went wrong.
Joe could see that too, plainly enough to be sure that he’d never tell her a word of this. He hadn’t even told her about the sale; and he wouldn’t, until it was put through.
Fine, Mr. Cramer said, shaking hands — fine. Just for a moment, after his good night, Joe was struck with something very familiar about Mr. Cramer, an angle, a facet of his expression brought out by the light from the hallway tailing across his features as he turned. But on the walk home the faint impression faded from his mind; he could think only of the job.
“Take your time now,” McCann said. “Don’t get excited. Just think back, Mrs. Nolan; try to remember anything unusual that happened. A little thing — maybe something he said, or something he did — might help us a lot. He wouldn’t have gone out with some friends last night, and drank maybe a bit too much?”
The light, tremulous quiver that answered him moved and vanished across Elizabeth Nolan’s pale cheeks. Joe wouldn’t do that; he would never stay away all night, all day, without a word. And she couldn’t think of anything unusual; unless the dentist—
McCann prodded his plate with a faint scowl. He didn’t like to talk or even think of dentists. But what was out of the way about this one?
Elizabeth Nolan wasn’t sure. It had happened three or four days ago, and at the time it didn’t seem important; it was just a bad tooth that was bothering Joe. This Tuesday, when he came home, the tooth was out. He told her that he’d gone to a city clinic; but this morning, in his coat, she had found a card.
It was on the dresser now, and in a moment McCann had it propped across his blunt fingers. It all sounded funny. Why would this Joe lie about a city clinic? Dr. August Rapp, by his address, wasn’t doing any free work, not in that section. McCann knew it well; he knew it took a good practice, high fees, to stay there. The point was odd; it defied logic. Why would the boy lie? Getting up, he thanked the girl, and told her not to worry, trying to sound reassuring when he said it. On the street, after a brief period of fretful thought, he caught a cab and gave the driver Dr. August Rapp’s address.
It was then about three o’clock, Friday afternoon.
The second time Joe visited the Cramers a back tooth ached dully against his jaw. Mr. Cramer was, apparently, off that afternoon, for he opened the door for Joe, and was sympathetic when he heard about the tooth. It should, he thought, come right out, for something like that, if it was neglected—
He stopped there for a moment, thoughtfully, with a slight frown and then lit a cigarette.
“Here,” he said slowly. “I can fix that up. You’re worried about the money, of course. Isn’t that it?”
It seemed that Fenner & Lisle’s had a company dentist, who took care of the employees. And William Frederick Cramer had good teeth; he had never been to see this dentist himself. His point was simple; all Joe had to do was to see this dentist, and to say he was William Frederick Cramer. Mr. Cramer himself would make the appointment, the next morning, and Joe could call his wife in the afternoon, so that she could give him the dentist’s name, and the time for his appointment. The whole thing wouldn’t cost him a nickel.