Peter got up; wandered out into the warehouse; began a leisurely inspection of some newly-arrived dock-samples; pushed an oily Corona from the centre of a ribboned bundle; lit it.
Came Elkins. “Smooth” is the only adjective applicable to the new-comer. He had a smooth voice, smooth hair, smooth hands, a smooth manner and a very smooth silk-hat. He was clean-shaven, jet-haired; looked more like a junior clerk in Rothschild’s Bank than junior partner in a mercantile business.
“Good afternoon, Peter,” he said. “What’s the trouble?”
“Afternoon, Elkins. Come inside, won’t you?”
Peter led the way into a tiny room off the warehouse: a room furnished with two chairs, a small gas-stove, and many cedar cabinets of cigars.
“Coffin department?” queried Elkins, sitting down. . . .
“I wanted to speak to you about Beckmanns,” began Peter, not acknowledging the trade jest.
“Oh, we’ve been doing very little with the brand lately. The stuff’s no good, you know. Too strong. And the dollar-prices on current sizes too high.”
“Really,” said Peter, who had for some years been drawing a small clandestine commission on the imports of both his competitors. “Then of course you won’t mind having to stop importing them.”
At this, it seemed as though little wrinkles creased themselves all over Elkins’ smoothnesses.