Moving slowly so as not to excite the pair into using their guns, Nace drew his agency badge and displayed it.
“Private shamus, huh?” one muttered. “What’s your name?”
“Lee Nace.”
The two swapped sharp glances. They had heard of Nace. That was not surprising. He was one of the most widely known private operatives in the country. Scotland Yard had even brought him to England for a time in a consulting capacity. Magazines of national circulation carried his articles on criminology.
“Well, Nace, what happened inside?”
“I was talking to a guy and a dame in an orange stand smeared pepper into my eyes. Then her and the guy went off together, I guess.”
“Who was the guy?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why was you talkin’ to ’im?”
“He looked scared.”
The two again traded looks. They made displeased faces.
One grunted, “That sounds thin! You’d better come and tell it to the sarge!”
Nace gritted, “Now listen—”
“There ain’t no use arguin’ with us! We got orders to snap up any suspicious characters around the diamond exhibit. And you fit!”
“I haven’t the slightest idea—”
“Nix!” One grasped Nace’s arm on either side. “Let’s ankle!”
Through his teeth, Nace said, “A cop — always my pal!” He let himself be led away.
They took the center of the midway. On either side, modernistic exhibit buildings reared. An autogyro pulling a long aerial advertising sign had joined the two dirigibles overhead. Barkers cried their wares, not in the old-time carnival style, but through vacuum tube amplifiers and loudspeakers. Two men, dressed exactly alike in white-trousered military uniforms and carrying small hand sprayers went past arm in arm — advertisement for a fly spray.
Nace started to veer right. The pair tugged him back.
“The Exposition police headquarters is over here,” Nace objected.
“Sure it is! But we’re takin’ you to the city station!”
They worked through the crowds. Possibly half the men carried souvenir canes. Four out of every five walked gingerly, on tired feet. Parties of four and six were frequent — family groups.
Benches in the shade were crowded; those in the sun were deserted. The announcer at the loudspeaker had finished the boat race and was telling the throngs what a great thing the Century of Progress was. An old man and an old lady sat on a bench in the shade, both with their shoes off.
They came to the turnstiles at an exit, hipped their way through, Nace in the center. They dodged traffic across a street. There was a parking lot ahead, long, rowed with thousands of cars.
“We’ve got an iron in here,” offered one of the men.
Nace said nothing. His long face was placid, but the serpentine scar was like a design done with ocher.
A parking lot attendant took a check one of them presented, then guided them down an alley of cars. He came to a large coupe, snatched a duplicate tag off the radiator, then wheeled and walked away. He did not look back.
“Get in!”
Nace, opening the coupe door, kept his eyes downcast. He could see the shadows of his two companions on the ground.
One of them was lifting a hand above Nace’s head. The fist gripped a gun.
Nace, from the shadow, calculated how the blow would fall. He shifted his gaunt frame slightly — took the smashing swing of the gun barrel directly atop his head.
He sprawled down on the running board, slid from there to the ground, and lay motionless.
Chapter III
The Heat
“That’s kissin’ ’im, Shack!” chuckled one of the two men.
Shack laughed fiercely. “Feel of his wrist, Tubby, and see if he needs another one!”
Stooping, Tubby laid the tips of stubby fingers against Nace’s wrist. “Hell! He’s still tickin’!”
Shack elbowed closer. “I’ll hand him one alongside the temple! That’ll do the job!”
“Hey, wait! Hadn’t we better ask ’im some questions?”
“What for?”
“Hell! To find out how much he knows!”
“Nix!”
“But maybe the cops are wise! We can tromp this bozo until he tells us whether they are or not! Then we’ll know whether it’s safe to go ahead with the big idea!”
“Waste of time!” Shack jeered. “This Nace don’t know nothin’! He just saw Canadan actin’ jittery an’ started to talk to ’im! Move over! I’ll fix Nace!”
“But that dame who snatched Canadan after she throwed pepper in Nace’s eyes! For cryin’ out loud! Who was she? Where’d she take Canadan? What was her idea?”
“Will you move over an’ let me swing this Roscoe?”
“But that orange-stand dame—”
“She ain’t our worry! We had orders to get rid of Nace. T’hell with the dame! She’ll be taken care of!”
“Oh, all right!” Tubby sidestepped to give Shack room to swing his weapon. Suddenly his arms flew up. They windmilled. Tilting over, he slammed into Shack. Off balance, they both sprawled down in the narrow space between the parked cars.
Nace came to his feet. He still held Tubby’s ankles, which he had grasped. He lifted on the ankles, elbows braced close to his side. When he had Tubby dangling off the ground, he angled a leg around expertly and knocked a heel against the fellow’s temple. Tubby became slack.
Grunting with the effort, Nace heaved Tubby atop Shack. He fell upon the pile the pair made, spearing expert blows with a bony fist.
Shack fired his gun. The bullet squealed off under cars and caused a tire to blow out somewhere with a bang almost as loud as the shot itself.
Nace grasped the gun hand, succeeded in gouging the barrel into the ground. It went off again. The earth closed the barrel end, and the powder gases, backed up, split the cylinder open, rendering the weapon useless.
Tubby began to squirm, reviving. His weight still held Shack down. Nace, braced atop the pair, burrowed teeth into his coat sleeve and yanked out his shirt cuff. A wrench of his teeth tore the cuff entirely off.
The links in the cuff were rather large, elongated. His fingers found a catch in one, opened it. A small lid flew up. Two tiny darts dropped out.
Scooping the darts up, Nace jabbed one into Shack, the other into Tubby.
The struggle went out of both men. They seemed to go soundly asleep. They would remain thus for perhaps two hours, thanks to the drug contained in the tips of the diminutive darts.
Nace heaved both men in the rear compartment of the coupe and locked them in.
Getting behind the wheel, he used Shack’s keys on the ignition and drove out of the parking lot. He saw the attendant peeking out of a sedan in which he had taken concealment at sound of the fight.
Nace turned down a side street, hit Michigan Avenue and wheeled right.
Reaching up, he removed his entire thatch of blond hair. It was attached to a rubber-padded steel skull cap. He wiped perspiration from his close-cropped natural hair, which was of a hue which exactly matched that of the wig.
He replaced the steel-lined wig. When Shack had struck him down, the thing had saved him, not only from unconsciousness, but from almost certain death.
Nace parked the coupe in front of a little hotel in the loop district. He did not examine the pair in the rear. To do so might attract attention. The streets were crowded. Cracks in the floor boards would admit air enough for the pair, anyway.
Entering the hotel, Nace got his key and went to his room on the ninth floor. Up until he entered the room, he moved as if in a great hurry; but once inside, all his bustle departed. He sat down by the telephone, stoked his pipe, waited.