But there was a look of surprise on the face of the stocky man, and there was a hole in his chest. He turned slowly as he fell, and Mr. Smith felt slightly ill to see that there was a hole, much larger, in the middle of the kid-naper's back.
Mr. Smith rose a bit unsteadily and hurried back to the car to help Mr. Kessler down to the ground. Over the crackling roar of the flames they could now hear the wail of approaching sirens.
The gray-haired man glanced apprehensively at the fallen kidnaper. "Is he--?"
Mr. Smith nodded. "I didn't mean to shoot--but I told them they were in a hazardous occupation. Someone must have seen the blaze and reported it. Some of those sirens sound like police cars. They'll be glad to know you're safe, Mr. Kessler. They've been--"
Five minutes later, the gray-haired man was surrounded by a ring of excited policemen. "Yes," he was saying, "three of them. The insurance chap says the other two are dead in the cellar. Yes, he did it all. No, I don't know his name yet but that reward--"
The police chief turned and crossed the grass toward the little man in the rumpled banker's-gray suit and the gold-rimmed glasses. Outlined in the red glare of the blazing house, he was talking volubly to the fireman on the front end of the biggest hose.
"And because we sell both life and fire insurance, we have special consideration for firemen. So instead of charging higher rates for them, as most companies do, we offer a very special policy, with low premiums and double indemnities, and--"
The chief waited politely. At long last he turned to a grinning sergeant. "If that little guy ever gets through talking," he said, "tell him about the reward and get his name. I've got to get back to town before morning."
Teacup Trouble
Good morning, Mr. Gupstein. My name is Wilson. Some of my friends around at police headquarters call me Slip Wilson; you know how those things get started.
You see, Mr. Gupstein, my regular lawyer gave me your name and suggested I see you if I needed anything while he was away. And I need legal advice.
No, my lawyer isn't on vacation, or not exactly. He's in jail, Mr. Gupstein.
But here's what I want to know. I've got a diamond stickpin with a stone about the size of a flashlight bulb. I want to find out if I can make a deal for nearly what it's worth or whether I'll have to push it through a fence for whatever I can get. The difference ought to amount to maybe a couple of grand, Mr. Gupstein.
How'd I get it? Well, in a manner of speaking, Mr. Gup-stein, it was given to me by a teacup. But that's hard for you to understand so maybe I'd better start farther back.
I first saw this guy in the elevator at Brandon's. He was a big bozo, about six feet between the straps of his spats and the band of his derby. And big all over. He wasn't over twenty-five years old either.
But what made me notice him was his glims. He had the biggest, softest baby-blue eyes I ever saw. Honest, they made him look like a cherub out of a stained-glass window. I guess I mean a cherub--you know, one of those plump little brats with wings sprouting from behind the ears?
No, Mr. Gupstein, he didn't have wings from behind his ears. I just mean he had that kind of eyes and that kind of a look in his face.
We both got off at the main floor, and I happened to reach into my pocket for a fag. And they weren't there. I'd just put my cigarette case in that pocket when I'd got in the elevator, too. So I quick dived a hand into my inside pocket.
Yeah, my billfold was gone too.
I don't know whether you can imagine just how that made me feel, Mr. Gupstein. Me, Slip Wilson, being picked clean like a visiting fireman! I hadn't even been bumped into, either, and the elevator hadn't been crowded. And I'd thought I was good!
Huh? Yeah, Mr. Gupstein, that's my profession. Until I got out of that elevator, I thought I was the best leather-goods worker this side of the Hudson Tunnel. You can figure how I felt. Me, Slip Wilson, picked cleaner than a mackerel in a home for undernourished cats.
Well, I took a quick gander around and I spotted my companion of the elevator ride disappearing through the door to the street. I hightailed after him.
A block farther on, where it wasn't so crowded, I caught up and asked him for a match. I'd forgotten for the mo-ment that my cigarettes were gone and I didn't have any-thing to light with it, but he didn't seem to notice the difference.
I made a crack about the weather, and since we seemed to be going in the same direction, friendship ripened into thirst and I asked him to stop in at a tavern for a drink.
He paid for it, too, out of a wallet that needed reducing exercises. We agreed that the Scotch was lousy, so I in-vited him around to my apartment so I could show him the merits of my favorite brand. Funny, but we seemed to hit it off together from the start like bacon and eggs.
When we got there, he flops into my favorite chair, nearly breaking the springs, and makes himself at home.
"I say, old chap," he says. "We haven't introduced our-selves. My name is Cadwallader Van Aylslea."
Well, Mr. Gupstein, you've heard of the Van Aylsleas; they own half this island and have a mortgage on more. Every time Old Man Van Aylslea stubs his toe getting out of bed after breakfast, the market drops ten points.
So I grinned sarcastic at him. "Glad to know you, Cad-wallader," I said. "I'm the Rajah of Rangoon."
Without batting an eye, he pipes up that he's glad to know me and how are things in my native land. For the first time, Mr. Gupstein, I began to suspect.
I'd been looking right into those baby-blue glims, and I could see he wasn't spoofing. He took himself at face value and he took me that way too. And I began to add up a few other little things he'd said, and I saw he was off his trolley.
But trolley or no, I wanted my money back. So I sort of accidentally got a couple of kayo drops tangled in his next Scotch. And I steered clear of doubtful topics of conver-sation until he leaned back in the chair and blinked a few times, and then closed his eyes and exposed his tonsils to the afternoon breeze.
I waited a few minutes to be sure, and then I put every-thing in his pockets into a neat little pile on the table.
Listen, Mr. Gupstein. There were seven billfolds, four of them fat ones. There were five watches, my cigarette case, and an assortment of junk ranging from a pair of pink garters to a bag of glass marbles. Not mentioning jewelry.
The billfolds added up to almost a grand, and what of the other stuff was valuable would have brought half of that from any fence this side of Maiden Lane.
To top it off there is a rock in his cravat that looks to be worth ten times all the rest of the haul put together. I'd noticed it before, of course, but it hadn't occurred to me that it might be the McCoy. But when I looked at it close, you could have knocked me down with a busted flush. It wasn't just a diamond, Mr. Gupstein. It was blue-white and flawless.
I put it with the rest and sat there looking at the pile goggle-eyed. If that was one day's haul, he was one of the seven wonders of the Bronx.
And all I had to do was let him sleep. All I had to do was wrap up my toothbrush, fill my pockets with the dough and the jewelry on the table, and head for Bermuda. With a grand in cash to buy pancakes until I could get a market for the rock.
All I had to do was blow. And I didn't.
I guess curiosity has hooked better guys than me, Mr. Gupstein. I wanted to know what it was all about. I had a roscoe that 1 never carried, and I got it out of mothballs, looked to the priming, and sat down. I was determined to find out who and what he was, and damn the torpedoes.