Greasy Face looked at him incredulously. “Are you trying to kid us?” he asked.
Mr. Smith shook his head and the motion made his pince-nez glasses fall off and dangle on their black silk cord.
He put them back on and adjusted them carefully before he spoke.
“Of course,” he said earnestly, “it is true that the manner of my reception here was a bit unusual. But that is no reason why — if this house belongs to one of you and is not insured against fire — I should not try to interest you in a policy.
Your occupation, unless I should try to sell you life insurance, is none of my business and has nothing to do with insuring a house. Indeed, I understand that at one time our company had a large policy covering fire loss on a Florida mansion owned by a certain Mr. Capone who, a few years ago, was quite well known as—” Greasy Face said, “It ain’t our house.”
Mr. Smith replaced his rate book in his pocket regretfully. “I’m sorry, gentlemen,” he said.
He was interrupted by a series of loud but dull thuds, coming from somewhere upstairs, as though someone was pounding frantically against a wall.
Checkered Suit stepped past Mr. Smith and started for the staircase. “Kessler’s got a hand or a foot loose,” he growled as he went past Greasy Face. “I’ll go—”
He caught the glare in Greasy Face’s eyes and was on the defensive again. “So what?” he asked. “We can’t let this guy go anyway, can we? Sure, it was my fault, but now he knows we’re watching for cops and that something’s up. And if we can’t let him go, what for should we be careful what we say?”
The little man’s eyes had snapped open wide behind the spectacles. The name Kessler had struck a responsive chord, and for the first time the little man realized that he himself was in grave danger. The newspapers had been full of the kidnaping of millionaire Jerome Kessler, who was being held for ransom. Mr. Smith had noted the accounts particularly, because his company, he knew, had a large policy on Mr. Kessler’s life.
But the face of Mr. Smith was impassive as Greasy Face swung round to look at him. He stepped quite close to him to peer into his face, the gesture of a nearsighted man.
Mr. Smith smiled at him. “I hope you’ll pardon me,” he said mildly, “but I can tell that you are in need of glasses. I know, because I used to be quite nearsighted myself. Until I got these glasses, I couldn’t tell a horse from an auto at twenty yards, although I could read quite well. I can recommend a good optometrist in Springfield who can—”
“Brother,” said Greasy Face, “if you’re putting on an act, don’t overdo it. If you ain’t—” He shook his head.
Mr. Smith smiled. He said deprecatingly, “You mustn’t mind me. I know I’m talkative by nature, but one has to be to sell insurance. If one isn’t that way by nature, he becomes that way, if you get what I mean. So I hope you won’t mind my—”
“Shut up.”
“Certainly. Do you mind if I sit down? I canvassed all the way out here from Springfield today, and I’m tired. Of course, I have a car, but—”
As he talked, he had seated himself in a chair at the side of the hall; now, before crossing his legs, he carefully adjusted a trouser leg so as not to spoil the crease.
Checkered Suit was coming down the stairs again. “He was kicking a wall,” he said. “I tied up his foot again.” He looked at Mr. Smith and then grinned at Greasy Face. “He sold you an insurance policy yet?”
The stocky man glowered back. “The next time you bring in—”
There were footsteps coming up the drive, and the stocky man whirled and put his eye to the crack between the shade of the door and the edge of its pane of glass. His right hand jerked a revolver from his hip pocket.
Then he relaxed and replaced the revolver. “It’s Joe,” he said over his shoulder to Checkered Suit. He opened the door as the footsteps sounded on the porch.
A tall man with dark eyes set deep into a cadaverous face came in. Almost at once those eyes fell on the little insurance agent, and he looked startled. “Who the hell—?” Greasy Face closed the door and locked it. “It’s an insurance agent, Joe.
Wanta buy a policy? Well, he won’t sell you one, because you’re in a hazardous occupation.” Joe whistled. “Does he know—?”
“He knows too much.” The stocky man jerked a thumb at the man in the checkered suit. “Bright Boy here even pops out with the name of the guy upstairs. But listen, Joe, his name’s Smith — this guy here, I mean. Look at him close. Could he be this Smith of the Feds, that we had a tip was in Springfield?”
The cadaverous-faced man glanced again at the insurance agent and grinned. “Not unless he shaved off twenty pounds weight and whittled his nose down an inch, it ain’t.”
“Thank you,” said the little man gravely. He stood up.
“And now that you have learned I am not who you thought I was, do you mind if I leave? I have a certain amount of this territory which I intend to cover by quitting time this evening.”
Checkered Suit put a hand against Mr. Smith’s chest and pushed him buck into the chair. He turned to the stocky man.
“Boss,” he said, “I think this little guy’s razzing us. Can I slug him one?”
“Hold it,” said the stocky man. He turned to Joe. “How’s about — what you were seeing about? Everything going okay?”
The tall man nodded. “Payoff’s tomorrow. It’s airtight.”
He shot a sidewise glance at the insurance agent. “We gonna have this guy on our hands until then? Let’s bump him off now.”
Mr. Smith’s eyes opened wide. “Bump?” he asked. “You mean murder me? But what on earth would you have to gain by killing me?”
Checkered Suit took the automatic out of his coat pocket.
“Now or tomorrow, Boss,” he asked. “What’s the diff?”
Greasy Face shook his head. “Keep your shirt on,” he replied. “We don’t want to have a stiff around, just in case.”
Mr. Smith cleared his throat. “The question,” he said, “seems to be whether you kill me now or tomorrow. But why should the necessity of killing me arise at all? I may as well admit that I recognized Mr. Kessler’s name and have deduced that you are holding him here. But if you collect the ransom tomorrow for him, you can just move on and leave me tied up here. Or release me when you release him. Or—”
“Listen,” said Greasy Face, “you’re a nervy little guy and I’d let you go if I could, but you can identify us, see? The bulls would show you galleries and you’d spot our mugs and they’d know who we are. We’ve been photographed, see? We ain’t amateurs. But we’ll let you stick around till tomorrow if you’ll only shut up and—”
“But hasn’t Mr. Kessler seen you also?” The stocky man nodded. “He gets it, too,” he said calmly. “As soon as we’ve collected.”
Mr. Smith’s eyes were wide. “But that’s hardly fair, is it?
To collect a ransom with the agreement that you will release him, and then fail to keep your part of the contract? To say the least, it’s poor business. I thought that there was honor among—er — it will make people distrust you.”
Checkered Suit raised a clubbed revolver. “Boss,” he pleaded, “at least let me conk him one.”
Greasy Face shook his head. “You and Joe take him down to the cellar. Cuff him to that iron cot and he’ll be all right. Yeah, tap him one if he argues about it, but don’t kill him, yet.”
The little man rose with alacrity. “I assure you I shall not argue about it. I have no desire to be—”
Checkered Suit grabbed him by an arm and hustled him toward the cellar steps. Joe followed.
At the foot of the steps, Mr. Smith stopped so suddenly that Joe almost stepped on him. Mr. Smith pointed accusingly at a pile of red cans.