Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 1, February 1961

“Relax,” said Cummins. “I know this property. There’s a little ridge crossing it from the road, no more than fifty feet wide at best. It’s the only ground that never gets flooded. You could hardly tell, but we’re standing on it now. We’re safe enough. There’s even an old shack the surveyors have been using not far along the ridge.”

“All right.” Tuttle’s sharp face went thoughtful. “So what are you asking for one of your damp-dry eighth-acre plots?”

“One hundred dollars.”

Tuttle nodded. “Doesn’t sound like much. Let’s see, two-thousand acres at eight-hundred an acre...” He whistled softly. “Better than a million and a half dollars!”

“Don’t forget the streets, Sam.”

“O.K. Subtract the streets. Subtract your land investment and all your expenses. Subtract say two-hundred thousand give or take fifty all told. You’re still way over a million.”

Cummins said, “And capital gains taxes?”

“You ought to still clear over a million.”

Cummins again repressed his irritation with Tuttle. He lit a cigar. “You through figuring my deal, Sam?”

“Yes, I’m through. And in answer to your implied question, yes I’m interested. I don’t foresee trouble. It’s not too much of a swindle.”

“No swindle, Sam,” said Cummins slowly. “The customer gets the land. Maybe it’s a little shock when he finds out he can’t build on it, but he still owns the land. He’s only put a hundred dollars in it. He can pitch a tent in nice weather and go hunting or fishing. He can talk about his Florida property. Maybe some day a flood-control job will happen around here, and then the property will really be valuable.”

Tuttle snorted. “Flood control! I wouldn’t want to hold my breath until. But it’s not too bad a swindle, Sheldon. What do you want me to do?”

The rain turned abruptly into a heavy cascade that gushed through the foliage that had been sheltering them. “We’ll be drenched!” yelled Tuttle. “Let’s get back to the car.”

“Too far in this rain. The shack’s a lot closer. Come on.”

The two men pounded along the ridge, the hissing torrent driving through their rain-coats in seconds. The shack showed up, and Cummins fiddled with the lock and they burst in.

The shack had once been used as a dwelling and contained several rooms in one of which the surveyors had stored some equipment. The floors sagged and were covered with dust, dried mud and woods debris, and the walls leaned, but the roof still managed to shed water, and the men took off their wet coats and hung them on a couple of the nails that bristled from the walls. They were silent a while, listening to the fury of the downpour, strumming on the roof shingles as it swept across, slapping at the crusted window panes and leaving flowing streams of water that obscured the outside.

“We’re liable to see some flooding before this is over,” said Cummins. “But, to go on with our business, all I want from you, Sam, is a good press, and I mean nationwide. Most of this land is going to be sold mail-order. Sure, some buyers will come in person, but the odds are they’ll see the property at its best, and for a hundred dollar investment they won’t be doing much investigating. Mainly, it’s the advertising campaign that’ll be doing the selling, so it’s got to be topflight, and believe me, it is. It’s wrapped up now, all set to go, waiting for the word from me. We ran a couple of test ads, and the percentage was pretty.

“But advertising needs support to gain public confidence. You know how it is, Mr. Doakes reads our ad and sits there dreaming how phenomenal the offer is, if he could believe it. Then he starts forgetting it, and turns some pages, and surprise, right before his eyes is a dignified little news article on our beautiful development. That does it. Doakes has learned to trust us. He digs for his money. That’s where you come in, Sam. I want those dignified little articles.”

“Can do,” said Tuttle. “How much?”

“Five thousand now, two payments of ten thousand each as the work progresses.”

“Not enough.” Tuttle’s reaction was automatic. “That’s only twenty-five thousand. I’ll take fifty.”

Cummins glared. “Don’t try to hold me up, Tuttle. The job’s not worth that much. It’s no sweat for you and I know it. I’m offering you more than enough.”

“A job with a smell costs more. Let’s hear another offer.”

Cummins resentment began to boil. Tuttle was a nasty little profiteer and a wise-guy to boot. If there were any handy alternative he’d tell him off. He needed Tuttle all right, but he didn’t appreciate being black-jacked, and maybe someday he could return the favor. Meanwhile, he forced himself to dissemble.