Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 1, February 1961

“So this is it,” said Sam Tuttle, the public-relations man, casting diagnostic eyes over the development. From the road off which Cummins’ car was parked they had walked about a half-mile into the property. “This is the dream stuff you want me to tout. A piece of Florida at a low, low price. Anybody can afford to be a landowner now. Take that first step towards independence and retirement. What’s wrong with the deal, Sheldon? What’s your gimmick?”

The unassailable dignity of Sheldon Cummins’ square cut face did not change, but he attempted no pretense with Tuttle; Tuttle had worked for him before. He merely replied, “That concern you, Sam?”

“It does. I’d like to know what kind of trouble I might get into.”

“It’s not too bad. Not bad at all. Nice-looking property, wouldn’t you say? I’ve got roughly two thousand acres in here, mostly level, crossed by babbling brooks, dotted with charming little ponds, off a good U.S. highway, a short ride to beaches, resort areas, shopping towns and industry. Ideal location and a clear title; every buyer gets an ironclad deed. Minimum plot is one-eighth acre. Streets, as you see, are marked out.”

Tuttle bent his head to let some of the rain water spill from his hat brim. For several days the weather had been unsettled, vacillating between fine drizzles and heavy downpours. The rain was falling harder now. Still fairly dry in their raincoats, the two men stepped beneath the shelter of a tree. Tuttle glanced at the occasional rough signs projecting from the brush and tall grass. The closest sign read, “Beachcomber Drive.”

“Picturesque,” observed Tuttle. “Who wouldn’t want to live on that street. You going to actually build the streets, Sheldon?”

“Hell, no. I’ve had them surveyed and marked. That’s it.”

“Maybe someday the town that collects the taxes will build them, eh? Maybe someday next century, after a fat assessment. But meanwhile the streets are neatly drawn on your plot maps. Let the buyer beware. Well, that doesn’t throw me, Sheldon, but I think there’s more to your gimmick than that.”

“Why so?”

“I look at it like this,” said Tuttle. “Here’s two thousand acres of good-looking land in one of Florida’s more desirable locations. Empty. No buildings, no improvements on it. There are a lot of legitimate real estate developers in Florida — if you’ll pardon the distinction. Some of them sell mail-order. But none of them have touched this parcel, and they haven’t just overlooked it. You picked it up for next to nothing, if I guess right. Something’s extra special wrong about this land. What is it?”

Cummins looked at Tuttle, his thick eyebrows crawling a little closer to each other, like caterpillars. It wasn’t Tuttle’s curiosity he disliked as much as his attitude. He never had liked Tuttle, he remembered. For an instant he toyed with the idea of booting Tuttle off his property, but his keenly developed acumen as to his own self-interests stopped him. He needed the younger man right now. He needed favorable publicity. He didn’t know another public-relations man as competent and as unscrupulous as Tuttle, and anyone who would take on this job would have to be unscrupulous.

There was a lot of money involved here. This was the biggest operation he had ever promoted — by far. It was so big that it frightened him. No one would guess that under his distinguished front beat a frightened heart, but it was true. He was far out of his league — and alone. He didn’t think there was anything as lonely as manipulating a million dollar operation by yourself. Or as worrying.

How he worried! He’d worried every step of the way, over even the smallest decision, over every cent he’d put out. It would be a miracle if he came out of this without an ulcer.

But if things worked out he’d be a millionaire, actually a millionaire. The stake was worth the grief. If things went wrong, he was through. Everything he had and could raise was in this venture.

He said, “Sam, it’s been raining a while now. Look there, at that wash coming along that little gully. Look beyond it, there’s another one, and another one. Look there, at that brook. Notice how wide and rapid it’s become? This is a flood basin, Sam.”

Tuttle nodded comprehendingly. “Thought it was something like that.”

“Ninety-five percent of the year this area’s all right. The rest of the time it’s flooded. You can’t put a house on this property. The rains hit the hills, miles of them, and they all drain into this basin. Looks like Niagara Falls when the run-off is heavy. Flash floods hit every now and then.”

Tuttle swivelled to face Cummins. “Hadn’t we better get out of here then? I’ve read about these flash floods. Read where only a little while back a fellow in a car was swept off a road and drowned.”