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  Delaney got to his feet and walked as rapidly as possible toward the sidewalk, watching the gathering crowd for a bluecoat. Someone opened the gate for him and then a policeman materialized with an amazed gasp.

  “Delaney! What the devil are you—” And then he saw the gag and quickly removed it. From his pocket he whipped a knife with which he cut the rope that held the detective’s hands.

  “Thanks, Terrill,” said Delaney, moving his sore mouth as little as possible. “Did you turn in an alarm?”

  “Sure I did, but I haven’t seen nothin’ of the outfit yet.”

  “Probably busy at two or three other fires. Where’s your patrol car?”

  Terrill pointed to the machine and elbowed a way for the detective. People jamming the sidewalk shook their heads and murmured sullenly about the laxity of the fire department. Delaney gave no sign that he heard, his mind too busy with the project at hand. He slid under the wheel.

  “I’ll send this back from Headquarters,” he said. “Stand by for the fire engines.” He pulled the whistle cord wide open and went hurtling away through the traffic.

  Blaze Delaney was not the only one who prided himself on being able to put a car through the streets in a hurry. He had passed the ability on to his son. Within five minutes, the detective braked in front of Headquarters and leaped out, sprinting up the three floors to the squad room.

  His inspector gasped across his desk through the open door.

  “Delaney! What on earth have you been into? You look like a cinder.”

  “I feel like one,” said the detective. “I lost my gun. Got one handy?”

  “You’re in a devil of a hurry.” He fished a revolver out of a cluttery drawer and pushed it across into Delaney’s hands. “You better clean up before you go out. That’s a helluva way to go off duty.”

  “I’m not going off duty,” Delaney shot over his shoulder. “And I’ll look worse in no time at all.” He leaned over the railing and barked at the desk sergeant: “Where can I find my dad?”

  “Dunno,” said the sergeant ponderously. “There’s three unattended fires waiting for him right now, and I don’t know which he’ll hit first. But I ain’t supposed to know.”

  Delaney soared down the flights of steps, pausing only long enough to detail a man to return Terrill’s car. He found his own machine at the curb and climbed aboard. The exhaust whistle chortled insanely and the car swerved headlong into a cluster of taxis which parted like frightened chickens.

  But the detective cut down his speed and shut off the racket two blocks away from his destination. As softly and silently as a ghost, he drifted into a parking place opposite a pool hall he knew very well.

  He sat for an instant getting his breath before he climbed down, looking up at the red glows which spotted the sky. At no time in its history had the city seen so many fires burning at the same time. The newspapers had exhausted themselves sending out extras. Delaney saw a paper now in the hand of a howling boy. He received a glimpse of the headlines.

  Mayor to Oust Delaney!

  NEGLIGENCE—

  So they were going to put the skids under his dad after all, in spite of anything Blaze Delaney could do. Right now the chief of fire-eaters was out fighting the battle of his life against flame, and up in the city hall—or more likely in a comfortable sitting room, this time of night—the mayor was denouncing and forgetting that he had cut down the fire department himself in the name of economy.

  But the detective had too many things on his mind to worry long about mere mayors. He got out of his car and walked slowly and purposefully in the direction of the lighted entrance.

  From within came the sounds of clicking balls and arguing men. An electric piano poured out its strident heart in an attempt to drown conversation. An electric sign advertised “Joe’s Social Hall. Beer. Snooker Pool.”

  Delaney pushed back both swinging doors at once and stepped through into the yellow lights. The bartender glanced up from a dice game, surprise making his face flabby.

  “What’s the matter, Delaney?” croaked the loose throat.

  But the detective was not there to waste talk. He stalked along the length of the bottle-flanked mirrors until he saw his quarry.

  Soapy Jackson and Connely were leaning over cues. They were without their coats and the caliber of the place was clearly emphasized by the fact that both mobsters exhibited shoulder holsters in plain sight.

  Connely’s chin went in with a jerk and he blinked his black beady eyes. He touched Jackson’s shoulder.

  “Pipe the dick.”

  Evenly, as though motivated by a slow-motion mechanism, Jackson turned. But Jackson’s nerves were not as good as Connely’s. His hands started to shake and he dropped his cue with a startled “Gosh! Delaney!”

  The detective’s hand was suddenly shadowed by a revolver.

  “I want you two birds,” he snapped. “Get your coats.”

  But the two gangsters were not without friends. Before they could move, a pistol butt and face jutted up over Delaney’s shoulder and the butt started down. Jackson’s eyes narrowed instinctively and the detective understood with a practice born of a thousand such situations. He dived sideways and his gun roared. The puffy-faced wielder of the weapon swore luridly and grabbed at his blood-spurting wrist.

  Connely’s hand shot to his shoulder holster and came out spitting. His gun belched flame a second time before Delaney’s bullet sent him thudding back against the wall. Jackson stood shaking, glancing to left and right, looking for an out.

  The detective’s hand was suddenly shadowed by a revolver. “I want you two birds,” he snapped.

  And then Delaney’s singed, calm face came up through a ring of powder smoke.

  “I usually mean what I say,” he rapped. “Walk right ahead of me, quick, and never mind those coats. You won’t need ’em where you’re going.”

  Jackson and Connely walked stiffly, the latter holding his shoulder and moaning. The bartender tried to catch Delaney’s attention and apologize, but the detective walked out through the doors unheeding.

  At the car, the detective removed an oddly limp blackjack from Jackson, pulled two pairs of handcuffs out of the side pocket and snapped them on docilely offered wrists.

  “Listen,” whined Jackson. “Can’t we talk business on this thing?”

  “No. Get in.”

  The two slumped into the seat, looking helplessly about, shivering slightly as the night breeze cut through their shirt sleeves. While Delaney was starting the car, Jackson spoke again.

  “Listen. I got ten grand in a safe-deposit box—”

  “Shut up!” rasped Connely. “He’ll get us for bribery! Ain’t you got any sense?”

  Delaney drove the car for several blocks before the two noticed that they weren’t heading for the police station.

  “Listen,” said Connely, “I gotta get this shoulder fixed. I’ll bleed to death.”

  “Go ahead,” Delaney snapped. “It’ll save the state the price of electricity.”

  “Aw, have a heart, copper. We didn’t mean no harm.” Connely stopped long enough to emit a heart-rending moan.

  “I’m going to take you birds with me,” said the detective. “I’ve got a little research to do, and after that we’ll go back to the station house and try out the rubber hose on you. I’ve got an idea that it’ll work.”

  Jackson grunted dolefully.

  “You don’t have to do that, copper. We’ll spill right now if you want us to.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “If we turn state’s evidence, will you let us off?” demanded Connely, miraculously reviving.

  “I’m not promising you birds anything. I don’t have to have your dope. I’ve got just about all I need right now. The big boy talked plenty fast.”

  “You mean—” began Jackson.

  “Shut up,” hissed Connely. “He’s baiting us.”

  Jackson’s mouth took on a traplike aspect. Jammed as he was between the wounded Connel
y and the unmoved Delaney, he cautiously tried to find out how close he could come to wrecking the car. But Delaney’s hands were steel clamps on the spokes.

  “Scared, aren’t you?” said Delaney evenly. “All I can say is, you’ll be a whole lot more scared in a couple hours.”

  Ahead, the gutted ruins of Tyler’s Department Store loomed. Several bluecoats were posted there now, keeping out any possible looters who might try to get away with charred valuables. Smoke still hung about the structure like a dreary cloak.

  The detective drew up to the curb and called to an officer to keep an eye on the two occupants of the roadster. Borrowing a flashlight, he went into the building and stayed for several minutes. Presently he came out and climbed in under the wheel.

  “Need any help?” queried the policeman.

  “No, thanks,” said Delaney. “You got any idea where I can find Blaze Delaney?”

  “Huh! He’s all over the city tonight. I heard there were sixteen fires going at the same time.” The officer stepped back and thought for a moment. “I can call the fire department for you.”

  “Go ahead,” said Delaney.

  In a few seconds, the policeman was back. “He’s working at Sixteenth and Bushman, according to the latest. It was seventeen fires instead of sixteen. I hear they’re going to throw old man Delaney out on his ear. That right?”

  The detective shook his head.

  “Just rumor. My dad’s in there to stay.”

  “Glad to hear it.” The policeman smiled after the accelerating machine.

  The passage between Tyler’s and Sixteenth and Bushman streets was made in record time, with the squad car chortling like a mad banshee. Ahead the sky was growing redder and smokier, until Delaney could smell the fire itself. It was not hard to smell smoke on this night. Spots in the overcast heavens hung like red ulcers above the town.

  At the edge of the fire lines, Delaney spotted the red coupe and drove in as close as he could. Two policemen were vainly striving to keep the street clear for the smoke-eaters.

  “Dobson!” shouted Delaney, and waited until Officer Dobson came. “Look after these two mugs, will you? I’ve got some business. Where’s Blaze Delaney?”

  Dobson gestured with his thumb and leaned against the running board, thankful for a chance to rest.

  The detective was not long in spotting the chief of the fire department. Blaze Delaney stood with his feet wide apart, bullying tired firemen to greater effort and directing the hard campaign against this particular two-story structure. He saw his son and his reddened eyes asked a vital question.

  “Not yet,” said the detective. “Keep right on. You’re pretty close to fighting your last fire tonight.” He smiled and cast about, attempting to recognize another individual. Finally he spotted Blackford and went up to him.

  The investigator was standing on the outskirts of the fighters, looking on, a little bored. When he saw the detective he blinked and his thin face twitched.

  “Hello,” he greeted. “Glad to see you got out of it all right.” He pointed to a bandage around his forehead. “They didn’t take me with them.”

  “No,” said Delaney. “I don’t guess they did. I found this on Jackson.” He extracted a limp black thing from his pocket and patted it against the palm of his hand.

  “Huh! I’ve seen plenty of blackjacks,” grunted Blackford.

  “Not like this, you haven’t.” Delaney held it up. “It’s stuffed with cotton batting.”

  “Well, that’s funny.”

  “Funny as a morgue,” snapped Delaney. “You haven’t got so much as a bump on your head. When Soapy Jackson sapped you with a cotton blackjack, you fell down and played possum to make it look good. Furthermore, your pals have been babbling their heads off.”

  Blackford’s face was frozen in stunned surprise. All his nonchalance slid away from him like an avalanche. In the jumpy firelight his skin was ashen.

  “They—they talked? You mean—”

  Delaney smiled twistedly and knew he had scored.

  “Look out there at that squad car,” he snapped.

  The investigator looked, and if he had been disconcerted before, he was wild with terror now. His eyes went wider and his jaw slacked, showing unclean teeth. Something like a strangled sob came up in his throat.

  And then it was as though his entire nervous system had snapped. He was hemmed in on all sides save one. Policemen and firemen stood to either side and in back of him. The only cleared ground lay between the lines and the fire. Blackford choked again, his eyes holding an insane light.

  And then, before the weary Delaney could understand what had happened, he saw with a violent shock that Blackford had started to sprint straight toward the flames. Whether it was an attempt at suicide or a crazed blindness, Delaney did not stop to reason. Like a catapulted projectile, he was off in pursuit.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Family Prestige

  THE fire was beating hotly against the detective’s face, but he plowed ahead. Behind him Blaze Delaney was running and shouting. A fireman tried to catch the detective’s billowing topcoat. But Blackford was already disappearing through the smoke-filled doorway of the crackling structure. Delaney saw it with a sinking heart, knowing that Blackford was determined not to be taken alive.

  But the detective’s case was not closed. There were many loose ends he could never hope to patch without Blackford’s confession. He plunged into the welter of gray geysering smoke, forgetful in his zeal that he himself might be engulfed and killed.

  Inside there was neither visibility nor air. The instant the lighted patch which was the door behind him disappeared, Delaney knew that he was lost in appallingly close confines. He was immediately deserted by his sense of direction, for in stumbling through the blinding haze he could not walk in a straight line.

  He collided with harshly solid objects, tripping and lunging forward, groping for a wall, trying to keep his face three feet above the floor in the air strata. And then he fell over a soft object which lay inert. It was Blackford.

  The last thing Delaney remembered was pulling Blackford away and trying to locate the entrance. The smoke tore at his lungs and the gray fog went black. He fell unconscious across the investigator.

  And then the detective was trying to sit up and someone was gently holding him back. He tried several times before he experimentally opened his eyes. He sighed with relief, for he was looking into the face of a worried Blaze Delaney.

  “Lay still, blast it!” said the chief. “You had me worried for a while, and if you don’t stay still you’ll have me worried again.”

  “You pulled me out?” croaked the detective.

  “Sure. It wasn’t any trick with a gas mask. What was the idea of chasing Blackford into that place, and why the devil was Blackford trying to commit suicide?”

  “Blackford’s the firebug,” said the detective, coughing.

  “Go on! You’re smoke-dippy.”

  The detective shook his head. “I’m not. How long has Blackford been in your department?”

  “Why, let’s see,” pondered Blaze Delaney. “About a year. He came here from the Chicago department with some fine letters of recommendation.”

  And then Delaney the younger lurched to his feet and kicked the stretcher away from him. There was no holding him down, even though the old fire-eater tried hard.

  Blackford was lying in a wire basket beside an ambulance and the smoke-grimed attendant beside him was administering oxygen.

  “He’s coming around,” said the intern. “That was close.”

  The detective gave vent to a hacking cough which was immediately stilled when he saw Blackford’s eyes spring open.

  “Hello, alias Blackford,” said Delaney, kneeling down on the pavement beside the man.

  The investigator shut his eyes tightly and groaned.

  “Snap out of it,” said the detective. “You’re going to do some talking right here and now. What did you do with the original Blackford?” br />
  “I’m him,” whined the investigator with a beseeching look at the chief of fire-eaters.

  Tom Delaney looked up with a slow wink as though to inform Blaze Delaney that this game was being played in the dark.

  “Yeah?” said Delaney the younger. “I happen to know you murdered him and took his papers before he had a chance to contact the department here. And you might as well not try to deny it!” He snatched at the dirty coat front and lifted alias Blackford up, shaking him. “Talk or I’ll pound you into hamburger!”

  Fear widened the investigator’s eyes as he saw the hard, set jaw. His mouth twitched and he tried to swallow.

  Delaney shook him again and raised a knotted fist.

  “That’s right,” croaked the investigator, quickly.

  “That’s better,” rapped Delaney the younger. “Who paid you to make these phony reports and overlook fires that had been set?”

  “Nobody,” whined “Blackford.” “We got hold of owners that needed the insurance money and split with them.”

  “I thought so. And your favorite trick was taking a bottle of nitroglycerin, wrapping it in excelsior and putting electric wires over the mouth. That right?”

  When the other had nodded weakly, the detective went on:

  “And you hooked the electric wires to doorbells so that the fires never started until your pair of henchmen were miles away with a good alibi. You started the Tyler Department Store fire by connecting several ‘soup’ bottles to the light switch which you knew would be turned on just before closing.”

  Dismally, alias Blackford nodded assent. His was the expression of a thoroughly whipped dog.

  “Well,” continued Delaney, standing up, “you’ll face murder on a dozen different counts, and arson. You and your pals out there in the squad car will certainly get mighty burnt. Did you set any more fires for tonight?”

  “No,” whimpered the investigator. “Don’t I get anything off for turning state’s evidence?”

  “You didn’t have to talk,” snapped Delaney, “but I’ve a dozen witnesses that you did. It’ll take more than a smart mouthpiece to clear you of this rap. And furthermore, you’re going to turn over a list of every man who allowed you to work on his property. Understand?”