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  “What’s up?” asked Tom.

  “What’s up, be hanged!” bellowed Blaze Delaney. “There’s plenty up, and if you didn’t keep your big ears so close to the woes of petty thieves you’d know that your old man was about to be thrown out.”

  Blaze Delaney thrown out? The detective blinked and tried to imagine such a circumstance. As long as he could remember, his father had been lord of the city’s fires. His father was an immovable institution, a character of great repute.

  Tom Delaney watched the old fire-eater’s anger vent itself against the traffic. He always drove his own cars, did Blaze, for the good reason that he could drive faster than anyone on the department’s rolls.

  “I’ve noticed,” began Tom, cautiously, “that we’ve been having more fires than usual, but—”

  “More fires than usual! Humph! Young fellow, we’ve had two hundred and fifty percent more fires in the past two months than in any other corresponding period. If you don’t know that, you don’t even read the newspapers. Right now the Tyler Department Store is burning, and it’s a concrete building that can’t burn.”

  He went around a corner on something less than two wheels, missed a pair of streetcars and gave a taxi driver the scare of his life. The automatic siren was wailing, almost drowning conversation in the coupe.

  “But,” said the detective, “why should you be kicked out just because—”

  “That’s why I sent for you. You’re supposed to be good at riddles.”

  “You mean you think it’s arson on a big scale?”

  Blaze Delaney grunted loudly. “I don’t think it, I know it.”

  Tom’s dark eyebrows went up and his shoulders moved in the slightest kind of a shrug.

  “I thought you had a special department which investigated such things,” he murmured.

  “That’s what you think.”

  “Well, I’m telling you this, Dad. I don’t know anything about fires and what starts ’em. But if you’re in trouble and you think I can be of help, here I am.”

  “Good,” said the chief. “That’s what I wanted you to say. If this thing doesn’t stop, I’m out of a job and my reputation is wrecked. Well, there’s the fire.” Blaze Delaney rocketed up to the lines and jumped out.

  “Confound that Number Three. I told ’em to wait for me before they—” And then a swelling wall of smoke swallowed both the chief and his words, and the detective-sergeant was left with his riddle.

  Tyler’s Department Store was a welter of shooting smoke and snapping flames. The entire first floor was filled with lightning-like tongues, against which the thin streams of water seemed fragile and aimless.

  Tom Delaney sat still and watched the toiling firemen at their seemingly hopeless task. Dusk was falling and lending color to the blaze. The flames began to recede slowly and sullenly under the onslaught of water and chemicals.

  The detective looked up to see a tall, incredibly thin man approaching the red coupe.

  “Where’s the old man?” asked the newcomer.

  The detective shrugged. “In there eating smoke, like he always is.”

  “You’re his son, that right? I’m Blackford, head of the Investigation Department.”

  Tom Delaney shook the limp hand with a feeling of distaste.

  “Three girls must have sizzled,” continued Blackford. “I can’t account for them. Too bad.”

  “Looks like arson, doesn’t it?” said the detective.

  “Don’t know. I never can tell until I get inside. There was a garage under the first floor and I think we’ll find it started from oily waste. It usually does. Some mechanic gets careless with a cigarette butt and zowie, there you are.”

  “When do you investigate?” asked Tom.

  “Soon as it cools down. That’ll be in about another hour. Why, you figuring on sticking around?”

  “Do you mind if I do?”

  “No,” said Blackford. “Glad to have you. Then you can okay my report.” He started away into the crowd, his eyes whipping about as though still searching for the fire chief.

  Almost an hour later, Blaze Delaney came back to his car. He was black with soot and smoke, and dripping from innumerable encounters with lashing streams of water. He had an odor about him like that of wet ashes.

  “Hell,” roared the old man. “There’s another one across town. Residence.”

  Tom whistled. “I’ll stay here and go over the ruins with Blackford.”

  “Know him? That’s good. Fine fellow, Blackford; he’ll show you the ropes if you want to learn. Go on, pile out. I’m in a hurry.”

  Tom Delaney piled out and stood on the soaked asphalt watching the red coupe go screaming out of sight. Engines and hose carts were pulling out in its wake, carrying their cargoes of red-eyed, dripping men who swore wearily as they realized that the night’s work promised no respite.

  Blackford was standing just outside the gutted door of the department store, playing a flashlight over the black interior. He turned the beam on the detective.

  “Hello! I was hoping you’d be along. It looks safe enough inside, but don’t move anything. That second floor looks like it’s sagging in spots.”

  Lazy spirals of steam were rising up from the ravaged counters to hang in the air like a choking poisonous gas. Goods were heaped in sullen, charred piles which dripped gray water. Two men in raincoats stood dismally beside the wall, looking at the chaos.

  “Hello, Blackford,” said one. “Hope you get this thing figured out in a hurry. There’s a hundred thousand in goods insurance alone.”

  “Yeah,” grunted the other. “You would be worried about your blamed insurance. What about my company, that’s paying all this? If we find out it’s arson, it’s going to go hard with somebody. Look alive, Blackford.” Slowly he trudged out of the shambles into the flickering glitter of the street lights.

  “That first one was Tyler himself,” said the investigator. “The other guy was Morley, of Graysons’ Insurance Company. Those insurance guys always give me a pain. They act like I cause all these burns. Let’s go down in the basement and look around at what’s left of the garage.”

  Tom Delaney coughed as smoke stung his throat.

  “I thought it looked as though it started on the main floor,” he objected. “How could flame get through this concrete?”

  “Elevator shafts,” said Blackford. “It always looks as though it started on the main floor. That’s because fire burns upward.”

  “Sounds reasonable, but I think I’ll look around up here.”

  “Go ahead,” said Blackford, amiably, and followed the detective over to the front wall.

  Tom Delaney broke out his own flashlight and stabbed it through the foggy interior, probing into piles of goods and along the floor. He went slowly ahead, marveling that anyone could ever trace arson in such a hideous shambles.

  Then he stopped with something like a shudder and played the light on a charred hand which jutted out from beneath a counter. He bent down and then straightened up.

  “I’ll send in the morgue wagon when we go outside. That’s one of your missing girls, Blackford.”

  Blackford looked quickly away. “I found the other two.”

  “Uh-huh. Both dead, weren’t they? This isn’t only arson, it’s first-degree murder. That is, if the fire was more than an accident. Funny they couldn’t have seen the flames coming at them.”

  “Panic,” muttered the investigator. “People get trampled.”

  “Sure, but it was almost closing time when this fire started, and there couldn’t have been many in the building. I think we’ll find that it started on this floor, and in more than one place.”

  Blackford sighed. “It takes a detective to figure all that out. I wouldn’t have thought about it, I guess.”

  Tom Delaney said nothing more. He walked ahead still lashing the counters with his light. This must have been the dress goods department, he judged. Then once more he stopped and stood looking down. Blackford came up and peere
d over the detective’s shoulder.

  “Bottle glass,” said Delaney. “Now what the devil could bottle glass be doing here?”

  Blackford shrugged and picked a fragment up, sniffing at it.

  “Furniture polish. They used it to polish the counters, I guess.”

  But the detective took the fire-dulled splinter from the investigator and shoved it into his pocket.

  “Maybe so, but I’ll analyze this for explosive or acid. Nothing like being thorough.”

  He began to search the floor over a radius of fifteen feet. Painstakingly he went over the charred and littered surface, moving unrecognizable objects, examining others. And then he found a piece of copper wire. Slowly he traced it down and uncovered another thread of metal.

  “Does insulation burn off extension cords?” he asked.

  “Sometimes.”

  “But if these things had had insulation on them, there’d be charred pieces. And”—he reached down and scooped up a bit of straw—“excelsior.”

  Blackford smiled tolerantly. “They pack a lot of things in excelsior in department stores. Come on, I’ve got to get busy. We have a certain routine that usually gives us the answer, and I’ll have to have a report in another hour. I’m going outside and get another battery for my light. This thing is getting pretty dim.”

  Delaney nodded. “I’ll go with you.”

  They worked through the choking fog to the door, skirting the ruins in the aisles and carefully avoiding the spot where the dead girl lay.

  When they stepped into the open air, Delaney took a long, deep, grateful breath.

  “I’ll get the morgue squad,” he said, “and then go up to Headquarters and analyze this glass.” Idly he watched a black sedan draw up to the curb not ten feet away.

  “Okay,” said Blackford. “If you find anything—”

  A pistol shot, as vicious as it was unexpected, gouged the concrete near Delaney’s feet. A harsh, strident voice bellowed:

  “Up with the mitts, you guys, or we’ll let you have it.”

  Delaney started to reach for his own gun and then realized that he was checkmated. Slowly he elevated his hands and watched two men walk toward him through the thin stream of light from the street lamp.

  “Connely,” grunted the detective. “And Soapy Jackson.”

  “Know us, do you?” grated Connely. “Seen us in the lineup, that it? Turn around, both of you!”

  Delaney turned because he knew that this pair always meant what they said. He saw Soapy Jackson bring a blackjack down on Blackford’s head—and then something crashed against his own skull. He stumbled bitterly forward into unconsciousness.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ready For Roasting

  THEY could not have gone far, for the car was stopped when Detective-Sergeant Tom Delaney regained his battered senses. He sat up and found that a pistol muzzle was prodding him in the side.

  “Git along, little cop,” said Soapy Jackson. “Walk up those steps and don’t look back. We’ll be right behind you.”

  Staggering slightly, Delaney climbed down from the car, discovering that his hands were tied behind his back. His topcoat was dusty and his hat had been lost, allowing his dark hair to cascade down over his face. He shook it out of his eyes and went up the steps, feeling helpless and weak.

  “Y’don’t like to be sapped, hey?” said Connely. “Serves you right, flatfoot.”

  Soapy Jackson kicked open a door and for the first time Delaney took account of his surroundings. This house was neither old nor shabby. It was bounded by a beautiful landscaped yard which showed care even in the dim light of evening. The knocker on the door was brightly polished. But, evidently, there were no occupants, for Jackson stamped through the halls as though he owned the entire building.

  Standing beside the door he had thrown open, Connely pointed into a dark closet.

  “This is good enough,” he said. “Throw him in.”

  Delaney was knocked off balance by a shove against his shoulder. Head first, unable to catch himself, he pitched into the cramped interior. Jackson kicked his legs out of the doorway.

  “Listen, flatfoot,” said Connely. “Just for your peace of mind, listen for the doorbell. When it rings, that’ll be the signal for you to start practicing on a harp.”

  “If they give dead cops harps,” added Jackson, chuckling. “But even if you do get one, you’re going to get a little taste of hell first.”

  He shoved a dirty handkerchief into Delaney’s mouth and tied it there with another. That done, he slammed and locked the door, leaving the detective in darkness blacker than ink.

  For the next five minutes, Delaney lay still, listening and marshaling his swimming senses. He heard the two mobsters pounding around the first floor and heard their muffled voices calling to each other across the length of the empty house.

  Evidently they were not worried about interference. And then the front door slammed and the building was as silent as it was dark.

  Delaney tried vainly to put the jigsaw puzzle together. He knew that detectives were often rubbed out for no apparent reason other than vengeance, but he did not understand just why he had been picked up at Tyler’s Department Store. Too, Connely had said something about the doorbell, meaning, apparently, that other persons would enter and finish the work the mobsters had begun.

  If he could only get out, Delaney knew exactly where to find Soapy Jackson and Connely. Like most gangsters, they had a common stomping ground where they could establish plenty of alibis. Even if anyone had seen them strike the detective and Blackford down, the assailants could prove that they were not involved in the killing of the detective—for the coroner would be unable to establish exactly the length of time Delaney had been dead.

  The worst that could happen to Connely and Jackson would be accessory to the fact—a charge easily shed with the aid of a smart lawyer.

  For a few moments Delaney wondered what had happened to Blackford, and then decided that the investigator had not been wanted. The mobsters were looking for revenge, that was all. Perhaps one of their friends had been sent up through Delaney’s efforts. Delaney tried to remember and then gave it up.

  He was feeling considerably better physically and considerably worse mentally when he discovered that his feet were not tied. He moved them restlessly and kicked at the door, without result.

  And then he remembered that Blaze Delaney, the fire-eater, was slated for the retirement list and disgrace, and the fact did something to him. It would break the old man’s heart to be ousted just because he didn’t have enough equipment to fight the flames which were gradually reducing the city to charred embers—and just that would happen if the present rate of fires kept up. Tom Delaney must do something.

  He reared back on his knees, bracing his shoulder against the wall. Slowly and carefully he worked himself up to his feet and stood, tottering. Experimentally, he slammed his shoulder against the door and found that the unnatural position of his hands made the impact extremely painful against his shoulder. Nevertheless, he heaved himself against the door once more.

  Just as he braced himself for a third try against the stubborn wood, he heard the doorbell ring. The sound of its jangling made a shiver course its way down his spine. It seemed to have a significance other than the arrival of more gangsters.

  Close on the heels of the bell came a sullen throb, not unlike the heavy jar of a falling wall. Delaney stiffened, waiting for the sound of footsteps, but none came. The house was tomblike in its silence.

  But not for long. A thin, reedy crackle whispered through the keyhole of the locked closet door and grew steadily in volume. Suddenly Delaney’s nostrils quivered with the harsh odor of smoke. The house was burning!

  Something like panic welled up in Delaney’s chest. He had faced guns and fists and unknown deaths, but the knowledge that he was about to be burned alive made all other dangers seem small. He set his teeth and hurled himself against the heavy door, a hiss escaping his teeth as the impact s
ent hot agony down his arm.

  He turned his other side to the panels and crashed with renewed force. Above the growing roar of flames, he thought he heard the wood splinter. Summoning all the strength in his body, the detective sent himself forward like a hurtling projectile.

  The door shivered away from its mooring and crashed forward, Delaney toppling on its surface. All air had been hammered out of him, but he checked himself from taking a deep breath. Smoke hung about his face though he was in its thinnest strata—the floor. For an instant he marveled at the rapidity with which the fire had spread.

  He struggled upward until his face was three feet from the floor. There he knew he would find the cleanest air and an absence of the heavy, poisonous gases which mushroomed against the planks under his knees. He was “breathing from the top,” for he knew that unconsciousness would come if he dragged deeply at the hot, acrid air.

  Moving forward on his knees, he fought his way to the front door. He tried to stand up to turn the knob, but it was locked from the outside. For an instant he pressed his face to a crack and breathed clean air. The gag and the smoke were doing their best to choke him.

  From there, he struggled along the wall toward another doorway which loomed dimly through the gray mist. The heat was shriveling, but Delaney went on, tripping, trying to see out of smarting eyes. At last he was through the portal, but the fire was licking through the wall at the other end of the room.

  He felt his eyebrows and hair grow crisp and singed. He swore into the gag and tried to find a window.

  At last a cool pane of glass touched his face and he drew back thankfully. With great difficulty he climbed up on the sill and kicked savagely. Glass showered to the floor, and the outrushing blast of heated air took Delaney with it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Talking Business

  WITHOUT knowing just how he came to be there, he sat up on the lawn and looked at the burning structure, which now was sending showers of sparks and geysers of flames into the black night. Smoke rolled starward and mushroomed down like some evil bird of prey.