The sleep-wrapped city was dark and silent. Kesley raced down the
quiet streets, cutting laterally once to avoid the yellow glare of a
wandering patrolman's swinging sodium lamp.
He knew he had to move quickly. The city's gates would, of course,
be barred, and he had no desire to try the lakefront way of leaving
Chicago. He was no swimmer, and the lake, unguarded though it was,
seemed endless. There was only one way out.
Pulling his richly-brocaded cloak around him, he looked ahead for some
sign of the night patrolman who had just passed. Finally he found him,
far down the opposite street, swinging his lamp as he made his routine
rounds.
Cautiously, Kesley began to advance.
The watchman's broad back was turned; a heavy truncheon hung at his
side, and the butt of a pistol gleamed in a holster. His lamp cast long
shadows down the empty street.
Kesley sidled up behind him and clubbed downward efficiently with the
side of his hand just as the watchman noticed the advancing shadow
behind him. The man had half-turned when Kesley's hand cracked sharply
into the column of his neck below his left ear and jawbone, and the
watchman emitted a feeble gagging cry and fell. Kesley caught him
neatly, grabbing the all-important lamp.
Moving quickly and smoothly, he stripped the patrolman, donned his
clothes, and bound the unconscious man with his ambassadorial robes.
The guard stirred; Kesley stunned him with a blow of the truncheon and
dragged him into the courtyard of a small, private dwelling. Stuffing
him into a garbage bin that stood outside the door, he straightened
his clothing and stepped back into the street, swinging the lantern
nonchalantly.
Moments later, horses' hooves thundered down from the Palace, breaking
the quiet. Acting the part of a good watchman, Kesley ran out into the
darkened street, holding his lamp up so its brightness would blur his
face.
"What's going on? Where are you coming from?"
Two or three riders passed, ignoring him.
"I say, stop!"
A fourth rider leaned down from his horse. "Duke's guard, watchman.
We're chasing an assassin!"
"Assassin? The Duke dead?"
"Heaven forbid. No; it's one of those South Americans. The Duke ordered
him executed, but he escaped!"
"Dreadful," Kesley exclaimed, and released the bridle. The horse sped
away into the night as another wave of riders followed down. Winslow,
aroused, was probably sending his whole guard corps out to search for
the fugitive.
Lights were going on all over the city now. Sudden bright, yellow eyes
winked down from unshuttered windows. Kesley stepped back into the
shadows and let five more horsemen go by.
A sixth came down the road. Kesley flagged him down with his lantern.
"What's going on, friend?"
"Haven't you heard? We're chasing an escaped assassin."
"What's that?" Kesley assumed an expression of horror. "What did he
look like?"
"Big man in royal robes. One of those South Americans."
"No! I just saw one go into that house over there." He indicated a home
which had not yet awakened to the clamor of the streets. "I'm sure it
was the South American," Kesley continued. "I was going to ask him
where he was going, but then I saw he was an ambassador and--"
There was no need to chatter further. The horseman, his mind set on
medals, was dismounting.
"Which house?" he asked tensely. "That one?"