Now Listen!

by Erle Stanley Gardner

Spud had dropped his sticks, his right fist was doubled up, his left slid forward, measuring the distance

 

Now Listen!

By Erle Stanley Gardner

Illustrated by Jeffery Reynolds

SALESMANSHIP—bah!

I see by the papers that salesmanship's been reduced to a science. It should be reduced to a minimum. We've got too blamed skilful salesmen now.

My sister married a salesman; or, perhaps I should say a salesman married my sister. “Sold her on the idea” is the way he would express it. Prior to that time I thought presidential elections and taxes were the worst features of our civilization.

Listen!

H. Walker Malone. Say it slowly and impressively. The name means nothing to you? That shows you are among the favored of fortune. H. Walker Malone is the husband of my sister. H. Walker Malone is a salesman of “securities.” There are many other things that I might say about H. Walker Malone—but what's the use?

I remember that I was glad to hear my sister was going to bring her husband on a short visit. I'd heard he was a “live wire” and I wanted to meet him. Mabel had always had a mind of her own and I wanted to see just how her husband was getting along. Of course, he wouldn't be henpecked. Oh no. Still it was very possible, in fact quite certain, that my sister's strong personality had made an impression and that I would find H. Walker Malone a man of few words.

I met them at the train. Mabel rushed to me with those little, feminine squeals of delight which attract so much attention in a crowded depot. After the breakaway I felt every eye upon me. With one accord the crowd seemed to forget the arrival and departure of trains in order to size me up as some sheik.

I could feel my face getting a brick red. That's a trick I have when I get embarrassed. It never tends to add to my peace of mind.

On my right I heard the clearing of a masculine throat, a forceful, dominant “a-a-ah-h-h-e-m-m-m-m.”

I turned. The outstretched hand of H. Walker Malone was thrust forward in solemn impressiveness. Meekly, innocently, I pushed forward my hand, glad of the interruption. My fingers were forthwith crushed in a vice-like grip which tightened with a sudden squeeze and left me helpless and defenseless.

“Of course it's Bert. Bert, my boy, how are you! Greetings! Glad to meet you! Attaboy!”

There was a boisterous volume to the voice that apprised the occupants of the depot of other details of our private affairs.

“Glad to find you looking so well, Bert. Mabel tells me you haven't been feeling so well. Threatened with a nervous breakdown, she said. Now listen, Bert, old chap, don't pay any attention to these doctors. What you need for run down nerves—”

I pulled my hand free and grasped Mabel's suit case.

“They're waiting dinner for us. We'll have to hurry. We can talk in the car.”

I started for the door.

H. Walker Malone remained standing in the same position.

“Just a minute, Bert,” there was a note of authority in his tone. It hardly seemed possible that a human voice could have so much volume. People a hundred feet away stopped to listen.

“I was saying, Bert,” continued Malone in the same tone, “that what you need for run down nerves is a trip to the seashore. Now we'll go to the car.”

THEN, and then only, H. Walker Malone started to follow us toward the door.

“Couldn't let you run away and leave me like that, Bert, old top. Not when I was right in the middle of an important suggestion. You see, I had to sell you on the idea or you wouldn't have had any respect for me. That's the worst part of being a salesman, you've got to sell 'em.”

I glanced appealingly at Mabel. I hadn't said much. I hadn't had a chance. I had hopes of Mabel. She used to be able to trump the conversational lead with a change of subject and make a clean sweep of all the tricks.

Mabel was silent.

“Here we are,” came the deep voice at my elbow. “Right this way, Bert.”

A gentle but firm, oh very firm, pressure on my elbow guided me to the right. I couldn't see why we should go to the right but there was a certain insistence about that pressure. I felt somehow that it would cause a scene if I did not go to the right. I hate scenes. I went to the right.

We stopped at the information desk.

“What's the fare to California?” asked H. Walker, his voice confidentially lowered until it was not much louder than an ordinary fog horn.

The girl at the desk told him.

“Have you any folders on the seashore resorts?”

The girl had.

There was some other information requested and given. I averted my head and paid no attention to the conversation. I was the only one within twenty feet who was not following it closely.

“My brother-in-law here has had a nervous breakdown,” confided H. Walker, in the tones of a fourth of July orator, “I'm going to send him out to California for a few weeks.”

APPARENTLY he was afraid that there might be some doubt as to just who it was that had had the nervous breakdown. He pointed his finger at me. There was no further room for doubt.

At last I got him away from there.

“You seem to forget,” I reminded him, “that I am a physician, and should have at least some idea as to what I want to do, also as to the state of my health.”

“Now listen,” H. Walker Malone leaned forward in the car and grasped my forearm firmly, pushing his face close to mine, “that's the trouble with you doctors. You don't know the first thing about your own cases and you won't listen to advice. I tell you that you're run down. You need a rest. You—need—a—trip—to—California! No, don't look away. Look me in the eyes. You're run down, you're all in. You—need—a—trip—to—California!”

Feebly, I sought to change the subject.

“Well Mabel, tell me, how do you like your new home?”

“Fine!” exclaimed H. Walker Malone. “I had the plans made by the best architect in the city and I supervised the architect myself. The dining-room—”

Mabel flushed.

“The dining-room,” she said, and I could see from her expression that the dining-room was not a source of extreme satisfaction to her, “the dining-room is—”

H. Walker Malone raised his voice. I thought that the windows of the car would shatter.

“The dining-room is superb. It is a source of great pride to both Mabel and I myself.” He turned to Mabel. “The—dining—room—is—superb!”

That settled that.

In due time we arrived at the house. As a bachelor of means I delight in having a home where one may relax, where there is refuge, peace and quiet. I like to be by myself, to sit and think without being disturbed. I have my servants trained accordingly. I had requested dinner at eight sharp. I knew that dinner would be upon the table promptly upon the stroke of eight.

I so advised my guests.

H. Walker Malone was ten minutes late. It really seemed as though he had deliberately delayed matters for ten minutes.

MABEL, knowing my regard for punctuality at meal times, remonstrated with him in that way women have of taking their husbands to task in a whisper just as they are going in to dinner.

Malone stopped; stopped dead in his tracks.

“Now listen,” he said, “that's the trouble with lots of people. They allow themselves to get a habit. They become creatures of habit. Nature never intended us to have our meals at certain times! We were intended to eat as we had the chance.”

Dinner threatened to be still further delayed. I became desperate. Raising my voice until my throat seemed to tear, I yelled: “Let's go on in to dinner and we can finish this in there.”

H. Walker Malone shook his head.

“Now listen, that's a mistake many people make. You should never argue at meal time. It makes it impossible to digest your food. Meals should be eaten with the mind relaxed, free from worry.”

The talk continued for fully three minutes, at the end of which H. Walker Malone looked me squarely in the eyes and summed up his position.

“You must not—get into the habit—of eating—at—regular—times!”

I surrendered. I nodded. We then went in to dinner.

By a supreme effort of will I managed to get through that evening without committing homicide. I determined that I would control myself. After all, he was Mabel's husband, and he was my guest. Probably he meant all right.

My manner, however, was far from being that of an ideal host. I was silent. I had to be. I had no opportunity to be otherwise.

H. Walker Malone commented upon this. He also commented upon everything else under the sun.

“Bert, you are nervous. You act as though you were all in. You are on the verge of a breakdown. You need a trip to California. When can you start? Saturday? How about Saturday?”

I felt that it was useless to argue.

I shook my head.

“That's settled then,” beamed Malone “You start Saturday. Yes, yes, you do. Don't try to deny it. You are going Saturday. You are going—to—California!”

In a rage, I retired early.

I could not sleep. I lay and tossed upon my bed, thinking of scathing remarks with which I could have squelched H. Walker Malone.

From below I heard his voice, addressing confidences to his wife with all that low-toned secrecy which an auctioneer uses in asking for a better bid.

“I can't let the matter drop now, Mabel. He'll never respect my ability as a salesman if I can't sell him on the idea of a California trip. I've got to see it through! I've—got—to—see—it—through!”

I did not sleep that night.

H. Walker Malone commented upon my appearance at the breakfast table.

“Bert, you're all in. Your nerves have gone back on you. You've simply got to get away. Just pull out and leave your patients. They'll get along some way. You can leave Saturday. You must leave Saturday. You—must—leave—Saturday!”

I said nothing.

On some vague pretext I retired to my study and picked up a book. It was an unwritten law that I was not to be disturbed when I retired to my study. I knew Mabel would impress that fact upon her boisterous husband.

Evidently she did, for I heard his voice booming through the house.

“Now listen, that's all nonsense. I know what he needs. He needs company. Human companionship is a great cure for tired nerves. He's been alone too much. He needs somebody to talk to him.”

I CAUGHT the hum of Mabel's voice, raised in frenzied expostulation. It was drowned in hoarse, masculine accents which shivered the house on its foundations.

“He—needs—somebody—to—talk—to—him.”

I got up to lock the door. I was too late. I met him on the threshold.

I felt that I should go mad if he said anything more about California. Hysterically, I sought to change the subject to something which would be of interest to him.

“Mabel tells me you're something of a golf enthusiast.”

It worked.

“Indeed I am,” he boomed, “and this is a fine morning to try out that course at your country club!”

I stalked to the door and picked up my golf sticks. At last I would gain a point.

“Come on,” I said, in a voice that sounded almost cheerful.

I shouldn't have tried to play golf. I could feel it as I drew back my driver for that first swing. I couldn't get the feel of the club. H. Walker Malone was watching me as a cat watches a mouse. I could feel his eyes watching my every motion. It made me nervous.

That was one thing I'd show him up at. I'd got the “low down” on his golf score from Mabel. He shot consistently around a hundred. I seldom went over ninety. For once I'd show him.

I swung the club.

I still don't know how it happened. I foozled my drive.

As my startled eyes watched the ball bobbing along in the wet grass some fifty feet from the tee, I heard H. Walker Malone's voice. For that matter, everybody within five hundred yards heard it.

“Now listen, Bert. I knew you were going to do that. You fudged on it—raised your right shoulder. You're supposed to drop that right shoulder just the merest fraction of an inch just at the moment of impact. Now watch.”

I watched. Everybody watched. Apparently I was a green dub taking lessons from a professional.

H. Walker Malone had an incorrect stance. He didn't handle his wrists right as he drew back the club. He moved his head on the up swing and the toe of the club was pointed wrong as he started down—but, somehow, he hit the ball. He hit it for a fair drive. Ordinarily I could have knocked the ball fifty yards farther than he did, but he seemed mighty proud of that drive.

“That's the way to do it, Bert, old boy. Smash 'em right on the nose, and don't forget that right shoulder. Drop it a bit.”

By the time I made my brassie swing I was mad, good and mad, mad with that smouldering rage which has ruined so many golf scores. As might be expected I sliced the ball over in the rough.

H. Walker Malone was at least a hundred and fifty yards away, standing over his ball. At least I felt that 1 would be spared any suggestions. I was wrong. His voice boomed over the fairway as plain as though he were at my elbow.

“Now listen, Bert. You've got to roll your wrists to get away from that slice. Try rolling your wrists.”

I MADE no reply. I walked after my ball. At the expense of ruining a new ball with topped shots I managed to get on the green. At last, somehow, that nightmare was over and my ball dropped in the cup.

I drew myself up and walked to the second tee. Here at least I would steady down and show this fresh dub up, show him up right. I always got a good drive from the second tee.

Malone led off. As before, he violated all of the rules of golf and got a fair drive.

I tried to get back in form. I tried to make my old swing. It was no use. I kept thinking of “rolling my wrists,” of “dropping my shoulder.” Malone didn't say anything. He merely stared aggressively at the back of my neck. I could feel that stare. My ball went into a wicked hook, out of bounds.

“Now listen, Bert—”

I never heard what H. Walker Malone had to say. I suddenly caught sight of Spud Terrier, the boxing instructor at my club. He was just finishing the first hole, in a minute he would be over on the second tee. I had once saved his life when he was taken with appendicitis. He had vowed he would do anything for me, anything. Spud used to be in the ring. There was a something about him that was rough, a beautiful scorn of all golfing conventions, a disregard for the finer social customs. I knew that when he said “anything,” he meant anything.

“Excuse me a moment,” I muttered to Malone.

I stepped over to the first green.

“Spud” I said, “you once promised that you'd do anything for me, anything in the world.”

He nodded.

“That man I'm playing with is a bounder, a beastly bounder. I'll hold him on the second tee until you get over there, then I want you to claim he stepped on your toe, something, anything. Then give him one or two good ones, just hard enough to leave a mark and to bring a little humility into his soul. I want to convince him that there's something he doesn't know everything about.”

Spud looked at me curiously, then at H. Walker Malone.

“There's only one of 'em?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Shucks,” he spat, “I said I'd do anything for you, I thought maybe there was a dozen or so. Shucks, one aint nuttin'. Why say, I'll walk right over there and smash him on the beezer.”

A GREAT peace came into my soul. I walked back to the second tee.

“Sorry, but I had to see a man for a moment. He's Spud Terrier, the old boxer. Don't think he likes me any too well, but I had to see him.”

Malone nodded.

“All right. Now, listen, Bert, you've gotta shoot another ball. Try this one my way. Roll your wrists. Remember now. Roll—your—wrists!”

As I addressed the ball, I could hear footsteps behind me. I took a tentative, practice swing—There came the sounds of a scuffle.

“Hey, you. Who yer pushin'?” It was Spud's voice, the voice he assumes when—

I turned, a smile twisting my features, in spite of myself. I knew I shouldn't have put Spud up to it. I knew I was a cad, but, oh the joy of it! I turned.

Spud had dropped his sticks, his right fist was doubled up, his left slid forward, measuring the distance. It would be terrible. He was going to hit him harder than I'd wanted, still—

“Now listen,” H. Walker Malone's voice was as positive as ever, “don't ever double up your fist that way. It's the wrong way to hold your wrist. Say, listen, you may have been a good fighter in your time, but you've got some bones broken in that hand. If you'd held your wrist this other way you'd have saved yourself all those broken bones. Here, turn your palm over, this way. Turn—your—palm—over!”

Slowly as one in a hypnotic trance I saw Spud's palm begin to turn. I saw no more. I fled.

I am writing this from a little town on the Pacific Coast—in California. I am here for my nerves.