Greasy Face's glance was again wavering between the insurance agent and Checkered Suit. He said "Nuts" quite disgustedly.
Then his gaze fixed on the man with the gun, and his voice got louder. "You half-witted ape," he said. "Ain't you got eyes? Does this guy look like--?"
Checkered Suit's voice was defensive. "How'd I know, Eddie?" he whined, and the insurance agent felt the pressure of the automatic against his back relax. "You told me we were on the lookout for this shamus Smith, and that he was a little guy. And he coulda disguised him-self, couldn't he? And if he did come, he wouldn't be wearing his badge in sight or anything."
Greasy Face grunted. "Okay, okay, you done it now. We'll have to wait until Joe gets back to be sure. Joe's seen the Smith we got tipped was coining up here."
The little man in the gold-rimmed glasses smiled more confidently now. "May I lower my arms?" he asked. "It's quite uncomfortable to hold them this way."
The stocky man nodded. He spoke to Checkered Suit, "Run him over, though, just to make sure."
Mr. Smith felt a hand reach around and tap his pockets lightly and expertly, first on one side of him and then on the other. He noticed wonderingly that the touch was so light he probably wouldn't have noticed it at all if the stocky man's remark had not led him to expect it.
"Okay," said Checkered Suit's voice behind him. "He's clean, Boss. Guess I did pull a boner."
The little man lowered his hands, and then took a black leather-bound notebook from the inside pocket of his banker's-gray coat. It was a dog-eared rate book.
He thumbed over a few pages, and then looked up smiling. "I would deduce," he said, "that the occupation in which you gentlemen engage--whatever it may be--is a hazardous one. I fear our company would not be inter-ested in selling you the life insurance policies for that reason.
"But we sell both kinds of insurance, life and fire. Does one of you gentlemen own this house?"
Greasy Face looked at him incredulously. "Are you try-ing 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 regret-fully. "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 ac-counts particularly, because his company, he knew, had a large policy on Mr. Kessler's life.
But the lace 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 be-comes 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 in-surance 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 in-surance 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. "Payoffs 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-"