The Collection (138 page)

The blonde wrote and then looked up. “How about the credit
entry to balance it off? What'll I put in the credit column?”

Peter Kidd looked at the dog and grinned. He said, “Just
write in 'Not so
damn
shaggy!' ”

Mr. Henry Smith rang the doorbell. Then he stood looking at
his reflection in the glass pane of the front door. A green shade was drawn
down behind the glass and the reflection was quite clear.

It showed him a little man with gold-rimmed spectacles of
the pince-nez variety, wearing a conservatively cut suit of banker's gray.

Mr. Smith smiled genially at the reflection and the
reflection smiled back at him. He noticed that the necktie knot of the little
man in the glass was a quarter of an inch askew; he straightened his own tie
and the reflection in the glass did the same thing.

Mr. Smith rang the bell a second time. Then he decided he
would count up to fifty and that if no one answered by then, it would mean that
no one was home. He'd counted up to seventeen when he heard footsteps on the
porch steps behind him, and turned his head.

A loudly checkered suit was coming up the steps of the
porch. The man inside the suit, Mr. Smith decided, must have walked around from
beside or behind the house. For the house was out in the open, almost a mile
from its nearest neighbor, and there was nowhere else that Checkered Suit could
have come from.

Mr. Smith lifted his hat, revealing a bald spot only medium
in size but very shiny. “Good afternoon,” he said. “My name is Smith. I—”

“Lift 'em,” commanded Checkered Suit grimly. He had a hand
jammed into his right coat pocket.

“Huh?” There was utter blankness in the little man's voice.
“Lift what? I'm sorry, really, but I don't—” “Don't stall,” said Checkered
Suit. “Put up your mitts and then march on into the house.”

The little man with the gold pince-nez glasses smiled. he
raised his hands shoulder-high, and gravely replaced his hat.

Checkered Suit had removed his hand halfway from his coat
pocket and the heavy automatic it contained looked — from Mr. Smith's point of
view — like a small cannon.

“I'm sure there must be some mistake,” said Mr. Smith
brightly, smiling doubtfully this time. “I am not a burglar, nor am I—”

“Shut up,” Checkered Suit said. “Lower one hand enough to
turn the knob and go on in. It ain't locked. But move slow.”

He followed Mr. Smith into the hallway.

A stocky man with unkempt black hair and a greasy face had
been waiting just inside. He glowered at the little man and then spoke over the
little man's shoulder to Checkered Suit.

“What's the idea bringing this guy in here?” he wanted to
know.

“I think it's the shamus we been watching out for, Boss. It
says its name's Smith.”

Greasy Face frowned, staring first at the little man with
the pince-nez glasses and then at Checkered Suit.

“Hell,” he said. “That ain't a dick. Lots of people named
Smith. And would he use his right name?”

Mr. Smith cleared his throat. “You gentlemen,” he said, with
only the slightest emphasis on the second word, “seem to be laboring under some
misapprehension. I am Henry Smith, agent for the Phalanx Life and Fire
Insurance Company. I have just been transferred to this territory and am making
a routine canvass.

“We sell both major types of insurance, gentlemen, life
and
fire. And for the owner of the home, we have a combination policy that is a
genuine innovation. If you will permit me the use of my hands, so I can take my
rate book from my pocket, I should be very pleased to show you what we have to
offer.”

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 himself, 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 interested 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 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.

“Is that gasoline?” He peered closer. “Yes, I can see that
it is, and smell that it is. Keeping cans of it like that in a place like that
is a fire hazard, especially when one of the cans is leaking. Just look at the
floor, will you? Wet with it.”

Checkered Suit yanked at his arm. Mr. Smith gave ground,
still protesting. “A wooden floor, too! In all the houses I've examined when I've
issued fire policies, I've never seen—