Death Is the Answer

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Leaning back in the wicker hotel chair, Thomas Gaylord Schurtz gobbled a good half of a Tom Collins. He was in his pajamas and robe. He slapped his protruding paunch and said, “Ah! The world brightens!” He was a big red-faced man, with iron gray hair and big red hands. Ex-carnival barker. Ex-picker of coal. Ex-stevedore. A man with a voice like burnished brass and a laugh that was contagious.

At the moment he was Professor Quotient. It was not hard work, standing on the stage of a theater while slim Mary Adams, in sequined tights and bra, stood by holding the bowl of folded questions, the program notes. Two bright kids, Nick Wellar and Stan Haverly, plus a few local boys picked up for a five each, roamed through the audience with the hand mikes and trailing cords, singling out extroverts in the audience to answer the questions and get paid off in crisp dollar bills — or crisp fifties for the jackpot question of the evening. It was a national hookup, selling the bleating public a mouth wash made of alcohol, water, and peppermint flavoring. A thousand a week. Four hundred for Nick, Stan, and Mary for salaries and expenses. Five hundred clear for Thomas Gaylord Schurtz, alias Professor Quotient. A big deal. A fine fat deal.

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