The apartment was the fifth one he’d visited, just as the building was the sixth one he had walked up to.  The suitcase full of samples only got heavier as the day went by, and he was careful to avoid the salesfurs for the several other brush and soap companies in Detroit. 
        He didn’t want to get caught working some other fellow’s territory.
        He knocked on the door and the otteress opened it slightly.  Her eyes lit up when she saw that it was him, but she recovered quickly and said, “Yes?”
        “Good morning, ma’am,” Tucci said with a friendly smile.  “I’m a representative of the Miller Soap Company from Snowdon, Rain Island, and I’m in the area offering my company’s line of soaps and brushes.  Miller, The Housewife’s Helper is our motto.  May I come in and show you some samples?”
        “Hmm.”  The woman looked hesitant, studying the hare before opening the door a bit wider.  “Come in, Mr. - ?”
        “Tucci, ma’am, Enzo Tucci.  And thank you very much for allowing me in to show you my goods.”
        She smiled at the pun, blushing only a bit as she closed and locked the apartment door.
       

        Some time later the two lay in bed, she wearing a sheer peach silk negligee trimmed in lace and peacefully dozing with a smile on her face with an arm flung across his chest.  He was in his boxer shorts and undershirt, lying on his back looking up at the ceiling while one of his paws idly stroked the fur on her arm.
        Mabel Rosen had probably been quite the pawful when she and her husband got married, Tucci thought.  Even now, after ten years of marriage and two years a widow, she was still a bit of a spitfire.  He stroked further up her arm, causing her to shift and murmur something indistinct into the bedclothes.
        The paw on his chest moved up to cup his chin, then his jaw, and he turned his head to kiss her palm as she lifted her head and smiled at him.  Her headfur was disarrayed and she gave a toss to get it out of her eyes as she said, “Oh, Enzo, it’s been – what?  Two months since you dropped by.  I got so lonely.”
        He leaned over and kissed her on the tip of her nose.  “Sweetheart, you set the rules, remember?  You don’t want to be a scandal.”
        “I know.”  She snuggled close, rolling onto her side.  The two kissed deeply.  “Just my luck to fall for a traveling salesman.” 
        They both chuckled at that, and Tucci slipped an arm around her.  “I’m sure there are a lot of single guys down at work, if you don’t want me any more.”  He pouted, then grinned as she made a face at him.
        “Oh, you.”  She chuckled, a low throaty sound, then she looked suddenly thoughtful.
        “What?”
        A pensive look caused her to frown.  “Enzo, I'm so worried about something.  Can you keep a secret?”
        He raised an eyebrow.  “Of course.  You can trust me, Mabel.”
        “Someone at work has been acting very . . . odd.”  She stressed the last word, and the hare’s ears perked toward her.
        “Yes?”
        “Well, his name’s Jacob Mastny . . . nice fellow, an otter – oh, don’t look at me like that, please, Enzo . . . anyway, he’s been doing a lot of work after hours.  He works in the design shop, you see.”
        “I’m listening, dear.”
        “Well, a few nights ago I went in his office after he left and I saw what he was working on.”  Her voice dropped to a whisper.  “It looked like a gun.”
        Tucci forced himself to stay in character.  Mabel Rosen had some romantic notions, but she was at times an excellent source of information from within the Ford establishment in Dearborn.  “A gun, eh?” he asked, shifting so she could snuggle closer and giving her a reassuring squeeze.
        Her whispered voice grew lower.  “Well, I’m probably being very silly, but I’m worried that he might be mixed up with those Purple people.”
        "The Purple Gang?  That's bad, very bad, if it's so," Tucci said.  He gave her a kiss as she looked up at him.  "I'll tell you what, Mabel.  I'll follow this guy around a few days to see what he's doing, okay?  I'll let you know if he's doing anything off-color."
        She immediately brightened and returned the kiss.  “Oh, would you, Enzo?  Mr. Mastny's such a nice fur - I'd hate to see him mixed up in the rackets or the Mob."  She looked thoughtful.  "Or maybe he's an anarchist, or one of those awful Reds from New Haven.  You know, the types that hang little girls from trees."
        “Well, I’m sure he’s nothing of the sort.”  He patted her cheek consolingly.  "Leave it to me," he said.  "I'll be really quiet about it."
        “Thank you, Enzo.”  She kissed him again, leaning into him.  “But are you sure he won’t see you?  I don’t want you getting hurt, just in case he is . . . “
        “Don’t worry about me, darling.  He’ll never see me.  Hardly anyone notices me on the street.”
        “I noticed you.”
        He chuckled.  “Well,” he said as he gently rolled her over onto her back and started to roll over on top of her, “that just goes to show that you’re a woman of taste and refinement, with a discerning eye . . . “
        She giggled, and sighed as they kissed.

        He could hear her humming from the kitchen, making them both lunch while he cleaned up and got dressed.  He finished combing his headfur, then stared at his reflection in the mirror. 
        There were times when he wanted to tell her, and times when he wanted to run as far away as his legs could take him.
        He was using her, of course.  She had no idea, and he meant to keep it that way.
        But he couldn’t deny that he had developed feelings for her.
        The bathroom door had a mirror mounted on it, and he turned to look at his tail.  No stripes marred the brown and gray fur.
        But he still felt like a thoroughgoing skunk.


        He doffed his hat as she opened the door, once again the virtuous widow seeing off the salesman.  “Thank you very much, ma’am.”
        “You come by again, Mr. Tucci,” she said, and mouthed “Real soon” before closing the door.
        He stepped out onto the sidewalk, sample case in paw and was headed down the street when he heard a voice say, “Stop right there, Long Ears!”
        Tucci turned to see a fox hefting a fat suitcase bearing down on him.  “Beat it, you – this is my side of the street.”
        “Okay, okay,” the hare said.  “Don’t get your nose out of joint, Sport.  I’m going.  Shucks, nothing doing up this whole damn street.”
        The fox stared at him, then glanced at the rows of apartment buildings before turning back to Tucci with a sly grin.  “Clever boy, trying to throw me off, huh.  Not working today, bub.”
        Tucci shrugged.  “Try it yourself, then, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”  With that, he lifted his case and headed off down the street.


        Tailing Mastny was almost ridiculously easy.  The otter was a very self-absorbed man who barely noticed anyone or anything around him, which made Tucci’s work simple.  All he had to do was loiter a bit at the Schaefer Road entrance to the Ford plant and watch for him.
        Mabel’s description of him, along with what little she knew of him (a foreigner from New Haven) didn’t give the hare much to start with, but after spotting the man the lepine followed at a short distance. 
        After five days he had a pretty clear picture of the man.
        Mastny favored a bar a few blocks from his apartment that served a good Czech pilsner (or a reasonable facsimile), and from occasional comments he made in a foreign language Tucci guessed the otter was originally from Europe, maybe Czechoslovakia.  He also smoked nearly two packs of cigarettes a day, favoring the Gold Rolled brand.
        He lived alone, and Tucci could see no signs of any women in Mastny’s life.  Prostitutes were affordable and rather easy to get, but the otter apparently wasn’t interested. 
        Maybe due to the police – prostitution wasn’t legal in Michigan like it was in Rain Island.
        Mastny was apparently Protestant, attending a Presbyterian church almost a mile from home.  
        At the end of the five days he had seen enough to allay Mabel’s fears, and he wrote her a letter explaining that he had followed the otter and had found no trace of any anarchist, Red, or criminal activity of any kind.  He also took pains to add various endearments that he knew would bring a smile and a blush to her face.
        And he also knew enough to send a preliminary report to Seathl.


        Broome put his coffee mug down and read the message again.  Since he’d sent out his little piece of doggerel nearly a month ago there had been fourteen responses, one from as far away as London.  A few had looked tantalizingly close, but weren’t what he was looking for.  Those had been passed on to the Assessments Section as possible targets for industrial espionage. 
        This one from Tucci in Detroit, however, looked promising.
        He thought a moment about the person described by Tucci’s cutout, the cleaning woman.  Older fur, no known vices – although those might reveal themselves upon closer observation – and was apparently from Czechoslovakia by way of New Haven.
        New Haven . . .
        Until the Revolt in 1931, New Haven had enjoyed a close relationship with Rain Island, but with the rise of the Red Fist and the liquidation or exile of many furs, Broome no longer had any contacts within the country on the other side of the continent.  Quite definitely no law enforcement contacts, either, so a background check would be tricky.
        Unless . . .
        He did, however, have a source of information from before the Revolt, one recently contacted and who might conceivably be able to flesh out the bare essentials of the fur in which he was interested.  It was a long shot, naturally, but by the start of May the buck would be too busy with the apprentice he’d agreed to take on to deal with a long shot like this.
        The fox crossed the office to his filing cabinet, unlocked it and fished out a file folder bearing a maroon stripe and the letter Z.
        Time to see if the buck would play or not.  Broome considered a cable, but dismissed the thought just as quickly.  His usual motto was Festina lente – ‘Make haste slowly’ – so the message would go out by diplomatic pouch on the next scheduled flight to Spontoon. 
        From the Embassy it was just a short walk to the Spontoon Islands Constabulary headquarters.


        Tucci realized that while he waited for a reply from his superiors he may as well continue following Mastny.  Every bit of information he could dig up on the fellow could conceivably be valuable, no matter how seemingly trivial.
        Besides, he thought as he waited for the streetcar at the Schaefer Road gate of the Ford factory, the job did have its perks.  It certainly beat hanging around stuffy offices while businessmen decided whether or not to trade with the peoples of the Rain Coast.
        He had been reading the paper when he saw Mastny leaving his apartment building and heading unusually quickly for the streetcar stop.  Tucci nonchalantly folded the paper and followed him, moving at an unhurried pace and joining others as they moved to the sign for the Michigan Line.
        As he rode the trolley he listened to the conversations around him while watching Mastny from the corner of one eye.  The otter looked oddly animated, quite a departure from his normally observed behavior. 
        “Gonna be a great game,” he heard someone say, and suddenly everything clicked into place.
        Today was Opening Day.  The Tigers were starting their season against Cleveland.
        Tucci grinned widely.  Trailing the otter was going to be fun today.


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