The fat man handed it over and Manning ran his eyes down the ad. It was the usual ad, complete with the enthusiastic testimonials signed by "A. Z." of Salt Lake City and "Mrs. D. F." of Podunk Corners. After running end around all the glowing adjectives in the body of the ad, you got the idea you could get a hundred miles from a gallon of ordinary tap water when you used the Forsythe Carburetor. The trade name was bad, of course. Simply, the "Forsythe Carburetor." Not the "Jiffy" or the "E-Z" or the "Little Marvel." But the price was right in there. Three forty-nine, with a double-your-money-back guarantee if not absolutely satisfied. The typical gyp ad. Something that promised a hell of a lot in the way of savings and mileage with a low enough price so the suckers would be willing to risk it. "Let's go." Manning got out of the car, on the street side because of the high curb, and glanced at the numbers on the buildings. A few doors down, on the other side. * * * * * The building was a three story brick, and old. The office of Forsythe Carburetor Company was one flight up, at the end of a hallway where the wooden flooring creaked and groaned and threatened to give way at any moment. The lettering on the door was neat and precise; there was no buzzer. Manning knocked, an authoritative type of knock. The man who opened the door was in his early sixties, Manning judged. Maybe a little more, maybe a little less. A big man, with thick shoulders and a head of black hair that was just turning to white and a friendly face with just enough lines in it to show it had been around. You got the idea that being a pitchman was second nature, that he had been in the sales racket for a long time. "Mind if we go in?" The big man shrugged easily. "Sure, come on in. Didn't think any customers would call personally." Once inside, Manning gave him a cold, official stare. "You Forsythe?" The man nodded, frowning. "Something wrong?" The innocent act, Manning thought. There's nobody here but us chickens, boss. He flipped open his suit coat so the badge showed. "We're from the Federal Fraud Investigating Agency, Mr. Forsythe." He let it hang there. The usual response was a whitening of the face, a frightened look, and then a request for credentials. Wheeler was already reaching into his pocket for a sheaf of them; FFIA men had to carry enough credentials to sink a battleship. But Forsythe didn't whiten, didn't look frightened, and didn't ask for proof that they really represented the FFIA. "I don't understand, Mister...?" "Manning." He made himself comfortable in a chair by the desk and glanced around. It wasn't an impressive layout. Actually little more than a mailing room. Packages stacked up against the rear wall, ready for mailing, a wrapping table, and a Pitney-Bowes machine. Crude, almost too crude. "How long have you been in the racket, Forsythe?"