The Promoter

by Orrie Hitt

  “Looks like one of them forts you see in those old pictures,” my driver said. “Creepy.”

  At the next driveway, which was fully half a mile distant, I told the cab driver to turn around. The Caddy, I discovered upon our return, was still parked in front of the house.

  “You want to go in, mister?”

  I told him I didn’t but that I would like to stop at the gasoline station located near the quickway. I hoped that we wouldn’t find it closed. It wasn’t.

  At first the young kid in the greasy overalls seemed unhappy about my visit so near to closing time but the dollar I gave him and my explanation of being desirous of obtaining some nearby property apparently met with his approval.

  As far as he knew, the estate with the high picket fence wasn’t for sale. At least, no one had ever mentioned it to him and he had gone up there several times, during the past summer, to pick up the Chrysler Imperial for grease and wash jobs. The woman — he thought she lived alone, though he wasn’t sure — was named Eudora Channing and he had found her to be exceedingly generous.

  “She always gives me a five-dollar tip,” he said pridefully.

  I thanked the boy for this information and returned to the cab. Now that I knew the name of the woman I began to speculate as to what possible good it would do me. That, I felt sure, was most difficult to determine at the moment.

  When we arrived back in the city I had the cab driver drop me off at my address. It wasn’t until after I had been in the apartment five or ten minutes that I noticed the envelope which had been slipped beneath my door during my absence.

  It was, in brief, a warning. The note, which was typewritten, advised me to terminate whatever work I was engaged in at the earliest possible moment.

  The note, of course, was unsigned. Thoughtfully, while I lit a cigarette, I considered the contents with greater concern. Obviously, the note had not been written by the man I had met in Sibyl’s Cafeteria. And, just as obviously, it had been written by someone who was well acquainted with my recent difficulties with the police. The two occurrences, I felt sure, were inseparable. The man with whom I had spoken at the cafeteria had, without question, arranged for my slugging and had called the police. My fine, and the confiscation of my briefcase, had been intended as a further warning. Now, for some reason, I had received a third, and more definite, threat.

  In a way, I guess you could say that I was scared. Yet, even greater than my fear, was the anger I felt rising up inside. I thought of Elsa Lang and how she was being pushed around like an apple cart at a county fair and I reflected, for a long time, on the possible fate of Judith Call. I thought, too, and somewhat selfishly, about myself. Hell, I had a good thing writing automotive articles. I hadn’t had any trouble until I’d met the Reverend Doctor Call and accepted his unusual offer. There was nothing to prevent me from giving up the whole thing and returning to the quiet life. Nothing, that is, except whatever conscience I might possess.

  An hour later, having made my choice, I was packed and on my way out of the apartment.

  I wondered if I would ever be sorry.

  8

  IT WAS almost two weeks before I decided that I was ready to put my plan into action. During that period I had not been idle, though, having turned out four fairly good articles for Car Skill.

  “Hey,” Sam Terry exclaimed when I dropped the articles off at the Central Building. “What gives with the crew cut and the moustache?”

  I told him that I was considering running down to Florida for a few weeks and that I was of the opinion the change made me look younger. More attractive to the ladies, I said. I felt it unnecessary to add that I had also acquired a pair of glasses.

  “Well, hell,” he said, shaking his head. “All writers are nuts. Believe me.”

  I asked him about some money that was overdue and he phoned downstairs and had it sent up from the accounting department.

  “I need a favor,” I told Sam. “And I think you can swing it for me, if you will.”

  “Just let me know what it is.”

  “This Florida trip is going to cost me a few bucks,” I explained. “I thought if you would call one of the foreign car agencies in the city and put in a good word for me, I might be able to pick up a few extra dollars.”

  “So close to the holidays?” he wanted to know. “Hell, who’s got money to spend for imported loads at this time of the year?”

  I told him I had some friends, people with plenty of gelt in their checking accounts, and I said I felt pretty certain that I could swing a deal or two. Finally, he agreed to do what he could for me and on the third phone call he located a dealer in the West Sixties who had four Mercedes on hand and the bank on his neck.

  “No salary,” Sam informed me as I got ready to go. “Just straight commission.”

  I told him that was fine, thanked him for his efforts and left.

  The owner of the car agency, a fat little man by the name of Hymie Rudolph, was quite enthusiastic about the prospects of unloading at least one of the glorified monsters on his showroom floor.

  “Jesus Christ,” he complained, “I never knew there were so many people in the whole damned world who didn’t have ten grand to spend on a car.”

  I selected a red and black model as the one which I would like to use for demonstrations. He said that was okay, that the car had been out on the road before, and then he had the girl from his office complete a bond application.

  “I know Sam Terry or I’d wait until this thing went through,” he told me. “Just don’t crack it up, is all.”

  Once the car was out on the street and a mechanic had installed the dealer plates I couldn’t wait until I was off. I informed Hymie that I would be back in a day or so, or that I would call, and then I pushed the Mercedes toward the river-front section.

  It was a good car, there was no doubt about that. Whether or not it was worth a shade under ten thousand was a matter of personal opinion but it had plenty of fire and gallop under the hood. I admitted, on my way downtown, that I would have style to spare when I visited Eudora Channing.

  Eudora. The mere sound of the name fascinated me. It meant, I knew, “good gift.” Most names, as you may realize, have some definite meaning. William, for instance, is supposed to indicate the strong “protector” type of individual. Just thinking about that made me grin. I didn’t feel at all like a protector. I felt, in a sense, like a man who wanted to run away from something.

  Although I had not as yet met Eudora Channing I knew quite a bit about the woman. Fortunately, one of my old contacts from the insurance business had been glad to see me again and he had consented to work up a credit report on her. She was, the information had revealed, thirty-nine years old and she lived at Forty-four Westminister Drive in the Panther Ridge section. Apparently wealthy, she never bought anything on credit but made all of her purchases on a cash basis. Occasionally, she left the city for periods of two or three weeks but with the exception of these infrequent trips she had lived at the same address for more than six years. There was no evidence that she had ever been married or that she had any living relatives.

  The only questionable mark against her character was an arrest in Atlantic City, on May 7, 1950, for indecent exposure during a night club singing act. She had been fined twenty-five dollars for this offense but there was no record of any further arrests or convictions. She had not, since moving to the city, acquired any life insurance and, as far as could be ascertained, she did not own any. She had been involved in two motor vehicle accidents, one in 1952 while driving a Sunbeam Talbot, another the following year in which a Jaguar XK120 had been demolished. Her bank accounts, the report had stated, were not known and there were no clues as to her banking affiliations.

  Not much, I thought, as I parked the Mercedes in front of 22 Arlington Square. No, not much at all. But enough to get me started. More than enough to take me up to Panther Ridge and get me inside of her house.

  Since that night I had left my apartment I had been
living in a furnished room on a little street on the South Side. The change, I had assured myself, had been more practical than dramatic, since it had become evident that the people I sought might resort to drastic means to stop me. I had not, following my move, been in contact with either Elsa or, with the exception of Sam Terry, any of my former associates. I had phoned Reverend Call once, the week previously, and he had broken down and cried bitterly as he told me he had not heard from his daughter. I had left the telephone more firmly determined than ever that I would some day locate her.

  The room wasn’t much to look at; just a double bed, a couple of chairs and a dresser with one missing caster. Most of my typing had been accomplished with a great deal of effort by putting one of the dresser drawers, upside down, on top of the bed and using that for a desk. The man who occupied one of the adjacent rooms worked on the railroad and he coughed much of the time. On the other side, a young waitress kept running the hot water all hours of the night, causing the pipes to thump and bump, as she made a laborious task out of washing her unmentionables. It was, to put it mildly, an unsatisfactory arrangement but I consoled myself with the fact that it was much better then living in comfort and exposing myself to further attack.

  I stripped out of my clothes and proceeded to dress with great care. For a suit I chose a dark charcoal number which set off my wide shoulders and went well with my dark brown hair. The bow tie, which was dark maroon, blended conservatively with the white shirt and gave me, I thought, a college grad appearance. My moustache, now that I noted it in the mirror, not only altered my looks considerably but added a welcome touch of distinction. This, of course, was somewhat lessened by my crew cut but once I put on my glasses, which were the horn rimmed type that so many businessmen wear, the effect was more than gratifying. Satisfied, I picked up my overcoat from the bed and shrugged into it. Few people, unless they knew me well, would be able to recognize me. I could, for the time being, assume the identity of Bill Gordon, ex-photographer and foreign car salesman. It was the only way I knew how to approach the job which I felt that I had to do.

  I reached Forty-four Westminister Drive a few minutes before five o’clock. Already the long shadows of an early November evening crept across the hills and plunged down into the valleys. Dark clouds which raced across the face of the setting sun held the promise of possible snow. The wind, blowing briskly out of the east, was blustery and cold. It was, in all respects, a typical winter night.

  As I walked up to the huge front door I noticed that the high fence surrounded a considerable portion of the spacious yard. Past an open gate I could see an Olympic-sized swimming pool, now drained of water. Beyond the pool was a miniature jungle of jack pines and, beneath these, a cluster of small, one-room cottages. It was quite an impressive lay-out.

  The woman who opened the door didn’t look to be thirty-nine. She didn’t look to be twenty-nine. Rather, she resembled a well cared for movie starlet who had climbed out of bed following a ten hour rest.

  “Yes?”

  Her voice was throaty, deep, as luxurious as the jet black hair that tumbled down across her shoulders.

  “Miss Channing, I’m Bill Gordon.”

  The name, of course, meant absolutely nothing to her. I had a feeling that she wasn’t looking at me at all but, rather, at the Mercedes which was parked at the curb.

  “I’d like to talk to you, Miss Channing. May I step in?”

  The one thing you learn, if you’ve ever sold anything, is that the easiest way to get into a house is to come right out and ask. Few people will refuse you, unless you give them the impression that you’re either a thug or a bill collector. But Eudora Channing was different. She didn’t move an inch.

  “What is it about?” she inquired, still looking at the car. “What is it you want?”

  “I’m told you like nice things. And the Mercedes out there is very nice, don’t you think? I had hopes that I might be able to interest you in a truly sensational offer.”

  Her glance moved away from the car and crept up to my face. “Who told you?”

  I gave her my best smile and took one step forward.

  “Actually, no one told me, Miss Channing. But beautiful women always like nice things. That much I know.”

  The compliment pleased her and she smiled. She had white, perfectly developed teeth and her mouth was generous and just the right shade of red. As she stepped aside, opening the door wide, her white sweater and skin-tight blue slacks developed some interesting characteristics.

  “You’re quite a flatterer,” she said. “And, while I’m sure that I’m not in the market for a new car, it won’t do any harm to talk about it.”

  “Thank you, Miss Channing.”

  The interior of the house was even more pretentious than the exterior had led me to expect. The bright red carpet in the long, wide hall was rich and thick and the living room into which she led me was, in one word, massive. All of the furniture was ultra-modern and plentiful and a bright fire burned cheerfully in the huge fieldstone fireplace at one end. Expensive native chestnut lined the four walls and long red drapes hung at each window. The two table lamps which glowed at either end of the davenport nearest the fireplace gave the room a homey, intimate atmosphere. “Please be seated, Mr. Gordon.”

  I thanked her, removed my overcoat and sat down on the davenport. The warmth of the fire washed across my face.

  “Now, tell me about the car,” she invited, standing with her back to the flames. “It is very attractive, I must admit. Just what make is it?”

  I told her it was a Mercedes, the best of the imported models, and that my boss, Hymie, was over the barrel with it and had to do something in a hurry.

  “I think eight thousand would swing the deal,” I added. “That is if you were interested.”

  “But I’m not overly fond of foreign cars, Mr. Gordon. I almost killed myself with one.”

  “People used to get killed in Model T Fords.”

  She liked that and she laughed. Maybe she wasn’t enthusiastic about sports cars but I could tell, from the way she looked at me, that she wasn’t finding sports car salesmen exactly repulsive.

  I told her some more about the car, how half of the roof lifted up when you opened the door, and the way it responded to the slightest pressure on the gas pedal.

  “But you’d have to drive it to know,” I said. “You have to get the feel of all that power under you. Could you take time for a little drive now? It wouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes.”

  She was waiting for someone, she said, and, anyway, she really didn’t feel that she was in a buying mood. I stressed, once again, the fact that Hymie would give her a good offer and it seemed to make some impression on her. I began to relax, feeling that I was making some real progress, and when she offered me a drink I accepted. I wasn’t out to sell cars, anyway. I had to sell myself. And if she bought the car that would come pretty close to finishing it.

  “I’m a terrible salesman,” I confided, part way through my drink. I smiled, answering the question in her eyes. “Here I am with a good prospect and I can’t get the sale off the ground. I guess I should have stayed in business for myself.”

  “And what was that, Mr. Gordon?”

  I dug a cigarette from my pocket and held the match for a long time. This had to be solid, had to go over smoothly, or everything I had done so far would be for naught. There just wasn’t any compromise with the facts. Either the young fellow in the Caddy had called upon her as a friend or he had come on business. I was, of course, gambling that it had been for the latter purpose.

  “I had a little model agency,” I said, watching her very closely. “In Allentown, Pennsylvania. Have you ever been there?”

  “No, I’ve never been to Allentown.” Her deep blue eyes widened slightly and focused upon my face. “You say you had a model agency. That must have been quite fascinating, Mr. Gordon.”

  “And that’s about all you can say for it. We didn’t make very much money. There didn’t
seem to be any great demand for our services.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “You mean, when I gave it up?” I grinned and adjusted my glasses. “Oh, three weeks. I guess that’s why I’m not so good at selling cars — too new at it. But it was the only thing that I could pick up while I’m looking around. The girls — I had five of them — still hope that I’ll be able to get going here in the city.”

  I had hit it dead center and I knew it. I could see it in the way she threw her head back, her eyes half closed, the twin points of her breasts rising and falling rhythmically.

  “These girls,” she said. “Were they from — Allentown?”

  “Two of them. The others were from near by, from the coal mining sections.”

  I had used the name Allentown because I knew a little bit about the place, in case somebody got curious and asked me. I had worked at a hot-rod show there one spring, out in Dorney Park, and I’d been in the city for more than a week. Besides, I was hoping that my mention of the coal mining region would have the same mental effect on Eudora Channing as it had on most people. I don’t know why it is, but when you speak of the Pennsylvania coal mining sections almost everybody makes a joke about the whorehouses in Scranton, or they infer that any girl within fifty miles of a coal mine spends ninety percent of her time flat on her back. Hardly any of this, you can be sure, is at all true. It’s like saying that every chorus girl has to lay the dance director before she can get a spot in the line. I guess people say and think these kinds of things because it gives them some sort of private, cheap excitement.

  “Were your girls pretty, Mr. Gordon?”

  “Yes. Very.”

  “And what kind of modeling did they do?”

  “Anything. Anything at all.”