Classicly

The building was a three story brick, and old. The office of Forsythe Carburetor Company was one flight up, at the end of a hallway where the wooden flooring creaked and groaned and threatened to give way at any moment. The lettering on the door was neat and precise; there was no buzzer. Manning knocked, an authoritative type of knock.

The man who opened the door was in his early sixties, Manning judged. Maybe a little more, maybe a little less. A big man, with thick shoulders and a head of black hair that was just turning to white and a friendly face with just enough lines in it to show it had been around. You got the idea that being a pitchman was second nature, that he had been in the sales racket for a long time.