Nace blew on a fist. “For a little, I’d tap you a few times to see what would shake loose!”
The prisoner squirmed uneasily. Then there came into his azure eyes a foxy look akin to that which had first appeared there when he had leaped back from the front door to draw his gun.
“I am tired of your insults!” he snarled. “We are going straight to the nearest police station! You shall regret your high-handed behavior!”
Nace laughed noisily, angrily. “Yeah?”
Baron von Auster put up his hands and seemed to be having trouble with his chest. He questioned hoarsely, “You won’t — go?”
“No!” Nace said cheerfully. “You won’t, either! You and I are going to hunt that woman!”
The baron had more difficulty with his chest. A minor convulsion seemed to double him over. He sought to straighten.
“My — heart!” he croaked. “This excitement—”
Another paroxysm carried him to the floor. His pudgy hands fluttered, clenching over his heart. He opened his mouth wide and a strange gurgling noise came out. Then he lay motionless.
Nace leaped sidewise — did it as swiftly as he knew how. He crashed to his knees back of a chair, twisting as he did so. His suspicions were right!
Two men stood in the front door. One was round and oily, a small man. The other was a giant, modeled after the lines of a steamer trunk with arms and legs. They both held guns — black automatics.
The weapons were of foreign make, with barrels but little larger than pencils. And on each muzzle was a metal can of a silencer.
Nace whirled the chair toward them. Simultaneously, he plunged for the handiest door. It happened to be the one that led into the kitchen. One automatic made a chung! of a noise. He felt the bullet ridge the Aubusson under him.
Another bullet gouged a fistful of splinters out of the doorjamb as Nace went through. He dived down the hallway. These two behind were seeking to kill him. They had been loitering outside, of course, and had reached the baron with some signal. The baron had sought to draw Nace outdoors into their hands, then, that failing, had sought to keep his attention with a fake heart attack.
Nace sloped into the kitchen, the caulks of his baseball shoes scraping loudly on linoleum.
The cellar door gaped open at one side, a pantry door on the other.
Nace seized a chair, shied it down the cellar stairs — at the same time scuttling into the pantry. He was out of sight before the three men — Baron von Auster had leaped up and joined the other two — came charging in. They heard the clattering chair and were fooled.
“Good! The son of a dog went into the basement!” hissed Baron von Auster. “We will lock him in, then go away from this place! Himmel! I hate to lose my two thousand dollars, which he has!”
“But what about the green skull?” wailed the round, oily little man. “That is worth a lot more than your two thousand!”
“Nein! Our necks are more precious!” the baron snapped. “This man is Detective Lee Nace, the Blond Adder! Have you not heard of him, Moe?”
“Oi! Just a private detective!” Moe looked at the giant who had accompanied him through the front door. “What about that, Heavy? You know New York. Is this Nace such a bad man that we should run away without finishing our search for the green skull?”
Heavy heaved a shoulder against the cellar door, slamming and locking it. “This Nace is worse than bad! He’s hell on runners!”
“Beeilen Sie sich!” rapped Baron von Auster. “Come along! There may be windows to that cellar, although I do not recall seeing any. Let us depart while there is time! I will consider my two thousand dollars as lost!”
They ran out, Moe muttering, “Oi! I don’t see why that Nace didn’t use a gun—”
“He don’t carry any!” Heavy snapped. “At least, no regular gun. Or so the newspapers say!”
Their voices faded into the raucous clamor of the radio.
Nace eased out of the pantry. He glided through the back door, out into the rear yard.
Twilight lay gloomily upon the rank shrubbery and clipped hedges. None of the neighboring dwellings could be seen.
Nace veered around the corner of the house, intent on following the three men who were behaving so viciously.
He stopped suddenly. His eyes, despite the gloom, had detected a path through the grass and shrubs. It looked like some heavy object had recently been dragged to cover.
With long strides, he followed the trail. It led into a bed of tall flowers. It ended at the body of a man.
Nace stared. At the same time, he absently brought his pipe out of his pocket. The pipe was stubby, with a rather new stem and an old, black bowl. He put it in his teeth. He liked to bite on something when he was bothered.
He bit on the stem now — so hard the bakelite broke like gravel in his mouth.
Chapter II
Violence Trail
The body lay face upwards. The fellow was tall, athletic. He had been rather handsome.
It was not the sight of the corpse that shocked Nace into chewing up his pipe stem. He had seen many of those. It was another thing, a horrible, grisly object — a thing that made the short blond hairs crawl on his nape. It made the weird scarlet serpent scar come out vividly on his forehead.
The arm of a green skeleton lay on the dead man’s chest. The pointed finger bones were embedded in the fellow’s throat, as though clutching. The bones were those of a right arm.
They were green as the leaves of the plants among which the body lay. The fingertips were stained brown. Some kind of poison!
Nace slowly took his pipe out of his teeth, lipped away pieces of the broken stem, cleared his throat softly.
Out in the street, an automobile engine had come to life. That would be the three men in flight.
Nace stooped over the corpse with the grisly green bones clutching its features. He slapped pockets. All but one were turned inside out. In that one, as if carelessly shunted there after a search, were all the man’s belongings.
He examined them. Cards, some money, a billfold, speakeasy passes. The cards bore a name.
JIMMY OFFITT
Importer
They bore no address except that of this bungalow. This, then, was the owner of the place.
Nace ran to the street. The car was gone, except for a murmur in the distance.
Sprinting, Nace made for his own car. He had parked it around the corner. It was a roadster, big, quiet, expensive, but of a model five years old. It was somewhat battered.
In the rumble seat lay three baseballs, two bats, a pitcher’s glove, and five New York Police Department badges. The badges were Nace’s souvenirs of the fight that had terminated the afternoon’s ball game.
The motor caught with the first stamp of the pedal. But the car bearing the three men was hopelessly gone.
Nace knew the machine; he had made a mental note of it when he entered the bungalow — a brand new sedan of inexpensive make.
He wheeled his car westward. He drove fast, using only one hand. With the other hand, he picked a flat case out of the door pocket. This held half a dozen extra stems to fit his pipe. He replaced the broken stem, stoked the pipe with tobacco from a bright silk pouch and, crouching low behind the windshield, fired the weed.
Ten minutes later, he came in sight of a sign that read: The Plaza.
The Plaza was a swanky apartment hotel on the shores of the Sound. It was big, new. It had everything the Park Avenue places boasted, as well as small, good shops downstairs. It had its own golf course, beach, and swimming pools.