Black Mask (Vol. 21, No. 10 — January 1939)

Arson by Baynard H. Kendrick

Death lurked behind the talons of flame that beckoned Stan Rice on to this firebug chase.

Miles Standish Rice twisted uncomfortably on the hard bed of the Palatka Hotel fighting a series of persistent bumps which seemed to protrude everlastingly from the cement surface of the mattress. Outside of his window a tall palm brushed caressingly against the screen, throwing shadows across the ceiling as it cloaked the glow of a street light below.

Stan turned disgustedly, found a new position, and sought sleep which refused to come. Miami, and his own oversized bed, were four hundred miles away. The winter season was at its peak, and a beach replete with suntanned girls was eagerly waiting for his return. He regarded the moving shadows on the ceiling with an unpleasant frown. Across the hall, far too close for comfort, some happy sleeper had begun to snore.

He reached for cigarettes and matches conveniently placed on a chair beside his bed. The match flared up. Almost as though in answer to a signal a moaning wail started across the street, sliced through the noise of the snoring sleeper, and reached up and up to a wild frenzied scream. Mournfully it reached a pitch which roused the sleeping town, then died away, sending its dreaded warning far over the broad expanse of the St. John’s River. Fire!

Stan dragged on clothes, straining his ears for the sound which he knew would follow — the tap of the big bell in the tower of the City Hall. He stood motionless when it came beating out a slow sonorous seven-two. Twice more it was repeated and carefully he checked it again, consulting a small pasteboard card which listed all the call boxes in town. Seventy-two was on the river front. Stan gave a low whistle. The location was bad. The river front meant the crate factory or one of the large mills which were the life blood of the town.

He grabbed a topcoat and ran swiftly down the Hotel Palatka’s three flights of stairs. A glance at the lobby clock over the desk showed him it was five minutes after two.

“A helluva life a fireman leads!” Stan muttered as he opened the door of his Buick sports coupe which was parked in back of the hotel. He was touching forty miles per hour in second gear before he had gone a block.

The sleeping town had galvanized into a hectic frenzy. Ahead of him as he roared up River Street he could hear the clang and siren of the fire company’s big LaFrance pumper. From other parts of the town came sounds of auto horns sharp and distinct against the quiet of the night. A mill was on fire and that meant that sleep was gone for the night for the populace of any lumber town.

The Buick was doing over sixty when he bounced across the railroad tracks of the Georgia-Southern and Florida and saw the pinkish glow across the sky just ahead. An instant later, the flames were in full view. They reached sharp, crackling fingers high into the night, turning the frame buildings of the mill into spectral black skeletons of wood, and the piles of drying veneer into grayish coffins dancing between him and the flare.

Stan had to brake hard to keep from shooting past the mill. He saw the pumper bouncing over a crazy sawdust road toward the river, and swung in behind it. Three other cars were there ahead of him. Out of them poured members of Palatka’s excellent volunteer fire force.

By the time the pumper stopped, a dozen more cars had arrived, spewing forth half-dressed men with faces set in grim determination. If the crate factory went, two hundred men would be thrown out of work, and thousands of dollars in completed crates would go up in smoke.

Stan’s lips set grimly. The fire at the crate mill was not entirely a surprise. There had been two similar ones in the town during the past ten days — fortunately checked before any great damage was done. The two Palatka fires were the tail end of a series of paralyzing conflagrations throughout the state which had spoiled a fishing trip for Stan and brought him on the four-hundred-mile journey from Miami to Palatka.

The insurance companies were growing actively worried, and the Mill Owners Protective Association, faced with rising insurance rates, had finally forced Stan into listening to their plea. The fact that the quail hunting was excellent in Putnam County and the promised fee large, might have had a minor influence, too.

A crashing symphony of shouts, snapping embers, and the roar of water under high pressure became the background for a lighted stage-set that held half-clad men running frantically about. The pumper was at work. Throatily, its four and a half-inch suction pipe was pulling water from the river and shooting it on the blaze, sending up vast clouds of white steam from a mound of sawdust and defective boards piled close to the water’s edge.

A quiet-voiced, slow-spoken man in police blue detached himself from the crowd and approached Stan. The reddish light touched his crinkled eyes, making them look cold and hard against the glare. He leaned against the side of the Buick and spoke almost in Stan’s ear:

“What do you make of it now? It’s the third fire in ten days!”

“You’re the Chief of Police, Blunt; what do you make of it?” Stan stared at a patch of hyacinths which the suction of the pumper was drawing in close to the shore.

Chief Blunt pushed his cap farther back on his head. “I think we’re lucky, Stan. This mill’s dripping over with resin. I’d expect it to go up with the speed of a gas-filled balloon, but the boys already have it under control.”

“They got the other two fires under control, didn’t they? How?”

“By quick work. I guess.” said Blunt. “We have the best volunteer Fire Department in the State, and they’re used to dealing with mills.”

“Uh-huh,” Stan agreed absently. “It’s nice to have faith in your own home town. You’re not by any chance running for presidency of the Chamber of Commerce, are you?”

Chief Blunt scratched his head and asked, “What the devil are you driving at now?”

“I don’t know, exactly,” Stan admitted, “because I didn’t see the other fires in town, but I do know this: A lot of property in Florida has been burned to the ground during the past year despite everything a flock of good fire departments could do. Maybe I’m up here on a false trail, Chief. I don’t know about the other two, but this fire looks like an accident to me!”

A cheer went up from the assembled crowd, drowning out Blunt’s words, as the flames began to die. The watchers fell back, relief taking the place of their worried expressions. The hissing steam from the dying embers was fading, sighing away as if tired. Men stood about talking, questioning, thinking of warm beds and blankets against the cold of the north Florida winter night.

Phil Cox, one of the paid members of the Palatka Fire Department, and a second man started for the river’s edge to remove the sucker and uncouple the four ten-foot joints of nonflexible hose which fed the pumper. All pumpers carry two such joints, giving them a twenty-foot leeway. The Palatka pumper carried four since most of its work was around the mills and the big La-France could not always get as near as twenty feet to the river.

The fire was almost dead, leaving the scene illuminated by the headlights of the assembled cars. Stan and Chief Blunt walked over to talk to Buck Anders, another paid member of the P.F.D.

“Nice going. Buck!” Blunt said. “Look who’s with us!”

Buck Anders, freckled-faced and sandy-haired, straightened up and wiped a smudged hand on his coveralls. “Hello, Stan!” he said. “Been doing any hunting lately?”

“That depends,” said Stan dryly.

“Oh!” Buck turned away to look at the embers. “It’s about time somebody took an interest in fire bugs instead of birds. Things have been too hot around here to suit me.”

“I might find a few hours for the birds, at that, if you can make it tomorrow,” Stan suggested.

“The day after’s better.” Buck turned back to Stan. “I’ll have some time off then. I know a good place out on the Rodman Road.”

“It’s a date!” said Stan.

Buck started down for the water’s edge. “I’ll see you then. I’ve got to uncouple the sucker. Phil and Trimmer’ll be cursing me blue.”

“Just a minute,” Stan put a hand on Buck’s arm. “Who’s Trimmer, Buck?”

“Wallace Trimmer, another volunteer. He usually works on the pumper. He’s pretty good.”

A figure emerged from the darkness down by the river’s edge and Buck started off again. “That’s Phil,” he said over his shoulder. “He must be done already.”

“Hey, Phil!” he called. “Let’s wind her up and get back to bed.”

“O.K.!” the man called back. “Come on down and lend a hand.”

Stan opened the door of the Buick and started to get in.

“I’ll ride down town with you, if you don’t mind,” said Blunt. “I could do with a bite to eat.”

“You can count me in on that, too!” Stan paused with one foot on the step of the car.

Phil Cox was running toward them, his rubber coat flapping grotesquely, his heavy boots swishing clumsily through the thick, tangled grass. “We need some help down here,” he called when he was still some distance away. “Trimmer’s passed out!”

Several men started forward, but Chief Blunt said, “Stay back! The fewer around, the better.” He added under his breath: “Come on, Stan!” He clicked on a small flash-light and led the way.

Stan fell in beside him after a few quick strides. The yellow circle of the flash-light guided them around charred pieces of board and nail-studded lathes. Dry sand gave way to thick, boggy mud which oozed about Stan’s shoes and threatened his ankles.

The circle of the flash swung ahead and stopped, lighting the contour of a pale, handsome face framed in the lapping water close to the bank.

Buck Anders and Phil Cox were bent over the limp form of Wallace Trimmer, just about to lift it to the bank.

“Lord!” Blunt breathed in Stan’s ear. “He looks like he’s dead to me!”

Blunt let his flash drop, and he and Stan joined the two firemen and carefully helped them lift the young man farther up on the shore. Stan straightened up from his task and pulled a clump of grass out by the roots to wipe his fingers dry. They felt sticky, but it was too dark to answer the question in Stan’s mind.

“I’ll get a doctor,” said Phil and started off to where the twin red lights of the LaFrance were bathing the mill in their fan-shaped glow.

Buck Anders, still on his knees, held a hand on Trimmer’s chest and looked up at Stan. “He’s pretty bad, I’m afraid.” His voice was low and trembled slightly. “I don’t see how smoke—” He stopped and looked down toward Trimmer again.

Stan picked up Chief Blunt’s flash and walked down to the water’s edge once more. For a moment, he stood watching the tiny waves pushing against hyacinths and reeds. He lifted the light and pointed it toward the black hulk of a large building some distance away up the river. The light battered ineffectually against the gloom.

Chief Blunt came up silently beside him, and after a while said, “Well, what do you think?”

“Look!” Stan lowered the light toward his feet. “The water’s full of blood, Chief. Wallace Trimmer was shot through the back of the head!”

A circle of men had already closed in about them, quietly watching the still form on the ground. The expression of relief which had come to the fire-fighters’ faces with extinction of the flames was gone, replaced by something grim and angry. It was obvious to Stan that Wallace Trimmer had been a popular man in the town.

The Chief of Police swung his torch around the circle and asked: “Did anyone hear a shot fired around here?”

No one answered immediately, except by an uneasy shifting of feet, and an angry mutter, unintelligible and low. The Chief repeated his question and waited again.

From the river’s edge a large unseen bullfrog croaked a reply. It was taken up by others until the night became hideous with the din. Farther inshore, trees which were lush and green by day stood stark and spectral as though aware that murder had violated the even, easy way of the mill town.

“There’s such things as silencers, Chief,” said some man in the crowd after a time. His words were followed by a stir as Phil Cox and a doctor pushed through. The fireman led the way, looking large and formidable in his bulky clothes. Stan studied him as he kneeled beside the physician, watching the play of reflected torch light on Phil’s red face and heavy brows.

The examination was short, and finished by the doctor saying, “He was instantly killed. I’ll send an ambulance down to take him away.”

Stan stepped forward. “Somebody suggested that a silencer was used to kill this man,” he said calmly. “I doubt if that’s so. The crackle of burning boards is a pretty good cover-up for a shot.” He turned to Phil Cox. “When did you last see Trimmer alive?”

“Less than five minutes before I found him lying on the shore. Him and I went down to drag the sucker free. I came back to uncouple the first joint and when I went back to help him, there he was lying like you seen him.”

“You and Wallace Trimmer worked the sucker together?” asked Stan.

“That’s right.”

“There was no one else around?”

“No.” Phil Cox adjusted his fire helmet. His face grew more congested as he fixed his eyes on Stan. “I don’t like what you’re driving at, mister. It sounds almighty like you’re hinting something about me.”

“Take it easy, Phil,” the Chief advised. “This is Miles Standish Rice. He’s up here looking around for the Mill Owners Protective—”

Stan ran one hand through his tousled blond hair. “There’ll be lots of questions asked, Cox, before all the checking is through. Trimmer was with you alive — and five minutes later he’s dead. And your own statement is that no one was near him but you.”

“Which I stick to!” Cox spoke quietly but the fury in his tone was most apparent. “I’ve heard of you, but detective or no, you don’t have to pick me out of this whole crowd. Anyone could have shot Wallace Trimmer.”

“That’s just the trouble, Cox,” said Stan softly. “Anyone.” He didn’t need to add: “Including you.”

Chief Blunt was silent as he and Stan started for the mill office to use the phone. The gay friendly kidding which marked their relationship seemed out of place in the face of death, sudden and quick-striking. Stan was never able to rid himself of a feeling of loss, almost personal loss, which death, and particularly murder, always gave him.

They picked their way slowly over the rough road of dampened sawdust, passed through an opening between two quiet buildings which whined monotonously to endless sawing during the day, and stopped outside of the small office.

A girl was coming toward the office, moving as quickly as the uneven ground permitted. She passed under a single swinging bulb which marked the juncture of River Street and the road to the factory. Stan caught a pleasant flash of dark hair and slender figure before she left the radius of light and drew nearer.

She stood for a moment looking toward the crowd which formed a black circle between office and river. Thrusting slim hands into the pockets of her light camel’s hair coat, she spoke to the Chief.

“Have I missed it?” Her voice was musical and low.

“I’m afraid so, Lois. There’s nothing much but smoke left now.”

“I’m glad of that. I was afraid—” She turned gray, intelligent eyes toward Stan for a split second then started on a run toward the crowd.

“Hey, wait!” Blunt called. “Don’t go down there!” He lowered his voice and swore softly. The girl was gone.

“Who is she?” asked Stan.

“Lois Gilbert. I’d rather she didn’t see Trimmer lying down there.”

“Is everybody in Palatka interested in a fire?”

“Certainly. But Lois has a definite reason. She works for young Jupiter Carnes.”

“Oh. He’s the insurance man, isn’t he?”

“You sound disappointed.” Blunt chuckled. “She’s not only his secretary. They’re going to be married. She deserves it, too. Jupe’s about the best catch in town, but Lois is plenty smart.”

“I like them smart,” said Stan. “Hurry up and phone.”

Stan stood alone as Blunt went into the mill office. Things had broken faster than he had expected. He began to whistle softly, wondering if the fire had been precipitated by his arrival that day. He snapped his fingers in irritation and abandoned his tune. Trimmer’s murder had him puzzled. It was out of place and Stan hated things which were out of place. He was supposed to be in Palatka on an arson case, a murder didn’t fit in.

He decided that he needed help in Palatka, and that Lois Gilbert might be the answer since she was with the largest insurance agency in town... The Chief was taking plenty of time. Stan was about to go inside the office when he paused and drew back into the shadow of the building again.

From out of the darkness just above the mill where the bend of River Street straightened, the figure of a man appeared. He was walking hurriedly toward the mill. Once he stopped and looked back over his shoulder as if listening for some sound; then he looked both to right and left, turned, cut through an opening in bushes which bordered the street, and headed for the crowd at the river’s edge.

The Chief came out of the office, located Stan around the corner of the building, and said, “Who are you hiding from?”

“I was watching a man,” said Stan. “This business is getting on my nerves!”

“And what about mine?” asked Blunt. “I phoned the sheriff for help. I’d like to know what the hell I’m going to do about this murder. I can’t hold everyone in that crowd for questioning, but I’ve got to do something.”

Stan was silent, his thoughts still on the man who had come so furtively to the scene.

“It looked almighty as if you were trying to pin this on Phil Cox, Stan,” the Chief went on. “Do you know any reason why I should take him in?”

“Phil Cox?” Stan repeated absently. “No, Chief, I don’t think I’d take him in, but I think I’d talk to him the first chance you get and check him carefully on time. I’m interested to know exactly how long it was from the time he saw Trimmer alive until he found him in the water.”

“What about the others, Stan? Cox was right, you know. Lots of people had an opportunity to shoot Trimmer.”

“Before we go into that,” said Stan, “let’s find out if lots of people had a motive.”

“That’s what’s got me right now.” Blunt rubbed his strong chin. “Honestly, Stan, I don’t know of a more popular fellow in town. Maybe I’d better ask some of that crowd down there to come to the City Hall and talk this thing over tonight.”

Stan shook his head. “I’m afraid you’d be wasting time. I’m beginning to get an idea. It’s so crazy that I’d better let it hatch out in its own way, but I’ll tell you part of it now. Trimmer may have been killed from the river instead of the shore.”

“From a boat?”

“Naturally,” said Stan impatiently, “unless someone was walking on the water!”

“What gave you that idea?”

“The fire,” said Stan. “The lousiest job of arson I ever saw. Come along! There’s something down here I want to check.” He strode off toward the crowd with Blunt following close behind him.

Lois Gilbert was standing a few feet outside of the circle talking to the man Stan had watched on River Street a few moments before. Stan passed quickly by, and some distance farther on, he took the Chief’s arm and asked, “Who’s that man talking to the Gilbert girl?”

The Chief swung around. “Him? That’s young Jupe Carnes I was telling you about. Now, about this shooting from a boat...”

Blunt’s voice droned on, but Stan only heard half of what he was saying. He nodded intermittently and gradually worked his way closer to get a better look at Carnes. The young man was expensively dressed for a town the size of Palatka. Clothes with the cut and style of those couldn’t be bought this side of New York, and Stan noticed one thing more — Carnes’ shoes were wet, dripping wet, as if he’d been standing in water.

Lois Gilbert and Carnes started up toward the road. Stan broke into the Chief’s observations: “I think I’ll leave you. I’m about to die of hunger. I’ll be at Chick’s for a while if you want me.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to eat alone,” the Chief said sadly. “It looks like I’m in for a night of headache on my own.”

A few minutes later, Stan nosed his Buick into the curb near the corner of Fourth and Lemon Street and unwound himself out of the car. The small lunchroom was deserted except for the proprietor who walked up from the rear to greet Stan with a “How’ya, Stan? I heard you were in town. Is it hamburgers?”

“Four!” said Stan.

“I’ll rush ’em,” the proprietor told him. “That crowd from the fire’ll be here any minute. It’s mighty tough about Trimmer. He was a swell guy!”

It never failed to amaze Stan the way news got around in a small town. Early in his career as an officer of the law, he had learned to take into account the quick, unaccountable spread of information. Despite every precaution, things seemed to get around quicker than if they had been broadcast, telephoned, telegraphed, and called out by a town crier. The proprietor already knew about the murder, yet apparently no one had returned from the scene. Stan sighed and settled down to his eating. He had come to accept such facts and dismiss them as of no importance.

Outside, cars were pulling up. Within a few minutes Chick’s tiny restaurant was nearly filled. Stan had started on his third portion when Lois Gilbert and Jupiter Carnes came in. There was one vacant seat next to Stan. The only other one was ten stools distant. Carnes took that one and Lois took the stool next to Stan.

“Hello!” he said, not wasting a minute. “Miles Standish Rice is the name. I know you, you’re Lois Gilbert. Secretary to Jupiter Carnes, and cupid hath it that you expect soon to become Mrs. Carnes. How are you, and how’m I doin’?”

Lois looked at Stan carefully. “You’re doing all right, Mr. Rice, for a detective.”

Stan elevated one eyebrow. “Now just how did you know I was a sleuth?”

“Do you think a blond six-footer can question anybody at a fire in this town and not cause talk?”

“No,” he said. “I guess a detective can’t keep himself hidden long around here. But since you’ve found out, if you ever feel in the mood for a grilling, or even a third degree, I’d love to oblige.”

“Maybe I’ll take you up on that one of these days!”

“Seriously, though,” said Stan, “I have to do some detecting to earn my fee. How about a mild workout on you?”

“Go right ahead,” Lois answered, her words muffled, coming from behind her sandwich.

“O.K! We commence. What were you doing at the scene?”

“Oh, I go to all the fires. Jupe — that’s my boss, Mr. Carnes — thinks that one of us ought to get to the scene as fast as we can. We insure most of the mills. We both usually go just in case the other doesn’t get there, if you follow me.”

“Sure, sure,” Stan said. “If he doesn’t make it, you’re there — and vice versa.”

“That’s right. Gosh, aren’t Click’s hamburgers delicious?”

“Lady, I’m going to fall in love with you; you appreciate food. Incidentally, how come you’re all dressed up? You don’t usually put on such a charming frock just to go to a fire, do you, especially at two in the morning?”

The girl shook her head. “No. I happened to be across the river tonight in East Palatka. Dancing at the River Inn.”

“With—”

“Mr. Carnes. We heard the siren and rushed over.”

Stan nodded his head and glanced away for a moment. Lois must have thought he was skeptical for she added quickly, “Jupe and I came together, all right. I left him parking the car. That was when you saw me at the mill.”

“Of course,” said Stan.

He liked the girl’s loyalty. Although there was a strong probability that she was telling the truth, Stan knew it was all of five minutes between her appearance at the mill office and the time he saw Carnes emerge from the darkness and head for the fire. She might be trying to cover up Carnes — they had ridden from the fire to Chick’s together and had plenty of time to fix up a story. Yet it was most improbable that anyone as frank and open as Lois Gilbert seemed to be would enter into such a deception. He determined to check up on Carnes and his wet shoes in the morning.

“I’m still at your service whenever you want a thorough police grilling,” Stan told her as he finished the last of his liberal meal. “I’ll most likely see you tomorrow. You cover the crate factory on insurance, don’t you?”

She nodded. “Yes, we do. Jupe will be glad to have you drop in.”

“Thanks,” said Stan. “Good night.”

Stan Rice breakfasted in the hotel dining-room at half past nine the following morning — dining lightly on a grapefruit, a double order of ham and eggs, a side order of grits, and three cups of coffee. With that small repast safely tucked away he felt he could face the busy day ahead.

A waiter brought him a telegraph pad. Through the smoke of his after-breakfast cigarette he composed three telegrams. He had just finished writing the third when a compulsion, purely mental, caused him to look around.

Behind him, one table removed, sat a small dark-skinned man with thin eyebrows, almost like a woman’s. Stan disconcertingly stared, running his blue eyes coolly over the man’s mean small features until his victim nervously picked up a morning paper and raised it before his face.

He turned back to his writing, and composed a fourth telegram — a request for a set of six pictures from the Mill Owners’ Protective Association. Somewhere he had seen the man behind him once before. It would be most helpful if he could find out exactly where.

He handed his telegrams to the clerk at the lobby desk, asked that they be sent off without delay, then casually said: “That man in the restaurant, at the second table just inside the door, has be been here long?”

The clerk took a look. “He checked in last night, Mr. Rice.”

“Do you happen to know what time?”

“If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll get his card.” Scenting mystery the clerk turned to his files. “Here it is, Mr. Rice. Charles Wentworth. The card shows he registered at 2:45 A. M.”

“A late-comer.” Stan smiled. “Do you know him? I mean is he a salesman — one of your regulars?”

The clerk pursed his lips. “I’ve never seen him before that I can remember.”

“Two forty-five,” Stan repeated slowly. A puzzled frown flitted about his eyes. “That was after Trimmer was killed at the fire. I must have been in Chick’s. Is there a train about that time?”

“No, sir. Mr. Wentworth came in a car. That must be his car in front, the red sedan.”

“Thanks.” Stan walked to the lobby door and returned to the desk. “Your card doesn’t happen to say whether Mr. Wentworth checked in here with wet feet, does it?”

The clerk looked mystified, then broke into a smile. “You must be joking, Mr. Rice. Our cards don’t carry that kind of information.”

“That’s a pity,” Stan declared. “Believe me, young man, it’s no joke to me.”

Chief Blunt was out when Stan dropped into the City Hall a short time later. Stan left word he would be back shortly and walked around to the fire station, housed in one end of the same building. He found Buck Anders busily engaged in polishing the big LaFrance machine. Stan watched for a minute then said:

“There ought to be plenty of fire sales in town today.”

Buck’s answering grin was feeble. “Don’t joke about things like that, Stan. At least not in Palatka right now. This whole town’s got the jitters. Three fires in less’n two weeks is too damn many for comfort.”

“A big fire might wipe out the town, mightn’t it, Buck? If it started just right with a wind?”

“You’re telling me?” Buck’s round face sobered. “One nearly did many years ago. I’m living in terror that it may happen again — and soon.”

“Why, Buck?” Stan leaned against the engine.

“I’m saying nothing right now.” Buck wielded his rag at an imaginary dust spot. “But I’m doing a little checking on my own. I intended to find out how them fires were started, and who did the work — and quick, too.”

“Good work.” Stan straightened up. “I’m going to take a run down to the crate factory today myself. I want to look around. Tell me something: Did Trimmer always help out with laying the sucker in the river?”

Buck pondered, then shook his head. “That’s Phil Cox’s job most of the time. Trimmer just happened to be on the scene quick-like last night. It don’t really take two men to lay it. Sometimes somebody helps, but most times Phil does it alone.”

“Did Trimmer usually help Phil when he was there?”

“Most anybody was liable to help, Stan. That’s about all I can say.”

“O.K. Don’t say more than you can help about my looking around, Buck.” Stan paused on his way to the door. “I haven’t forgotten our date for quail, but I’m afraid it’s going to have to wait. When this business is over—”

Buck sighed. “You can’t get it over too quick for me.”

“By the way,” said Stan. “Where’s Phil Cox now?”

“He left a short while ago for Jacksonville.” Buck looked up from his work and gazed searchingly at Stan. “He got a phone call about an hour ago. He acted some like he was worried and said he simply had to go. Jim Hancock’s going to sub for him today.”

“You don’t know what the call was about?”

“I sure don’t,” Buck declared. “That’s Phil’s business, not mine.”

It was eleven o’clock when Stan left the firehouse and entered Blunt’s office. The Chief was phoning. Stan waited until he was through, then asked abruptly: “Did you know that Cox left this morning for Jacksonville?”

The Chief packed down tobacco in his pipe before he replied. “Why, no, I didn’t.” There was worried concern in his tone. “Last night you said you had nothing on him.”

“I haven’t today either,” Stan admitted. “But I’d like to get something. Mr. Phil Cox has a slightly tainted odor to me and I can’t quite place it.” He sat down on the Chief’s desk and kicked his heels against the side. “Suppose you call Jacksonville and have him tailed from the train. I’d like to have a report on this trip.”

“I’m ready to do anything,” said Blunt grimly and picked up the phone. He pushed a typewritten sheet of paper over to Stan while he was making the call. “Here’s a report on Wallace Trimmer. All that I can see is that it gums things up worse than ever.”

After Stan had read it he was inclined to agree. Trimmer was unmarried; in his late thirties; worked as a salesman for the North Florida Wholesale Grocery Company; belonged to a lodge, and was in every way the average successful business man of a not too large town. He had been quiet of habit; not given to excess of any kind.

Stan laid the typed sheet back on Blunt’s desk and said: “At least that’s given me an idea. I’ll see you later. I’m taking a walk uptown.”

As he walked up Lemon Street heading for the office of the Carnes Insurance Agency, he thought he saw the Hotel Palatka’s newly arrived guest, Charles Wentworth, leave the Carnes office. Stan was still nearly a block away — too far to be positive whether he left Carnes’ or the drugstore next door. He slowed down and waited until Wentworth climbed into his red sedan and drove away.

A few minutes later Stan stepped inside the Carnes office and was greeted by Lois Gilbert’s friendly smile.

“Ah!” she said gaily. “The master of the third degree.” Her gray eyes were clear, and she looked fresh and untired despite her late hours of the night before.

“I need more time for that,” Stan said lightly, “and a less conspicuous place. Right now I have crate factory insurance on my mind. I’d like to know how much you carried.” He paused, watching her carefully. “I’d also like to know how much life insurance, if any, your firm carried on Wallace Trimmer.”

“The crate factory’s easy.” Lois frowned. “I’ll have to check about Trimmer.” She walked to a file in the corner. While she was searching through one of the drawers, Stan asked casually:

“You investigate applicants for life insurance, don’t you?”

Lois nodded.

“Do you have a report on Wallace Trimmer?”

“I don’t need one,” she said promptly. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything which might help to tell why he was killed.”

“Most of what I know is gossip.” Lois took papers from the file and returned to her desk. “You know how things are in a small town. There was talk about Wallace and a woman in St. Augustine — a divorcée. There’ve been rumors that Wallace caused the divorce.”

“So?”

“I can tell you something which isn’t generally known.” Lois lowered her voice. “Trimmer met her through Phil Cox. Phil and Trimmer both played on the Palatka Baseball team. Phil introduced her to Wallace one day after a game. Apparently Trimmer won out.”

“You mean Cox had run around with her before she met Trimmer?”

“That’s merely talk, Stan.”

“There’s usually enough truth in gossip to make it dangerous. Lois. Jealousy’s an old motive, but it’s still good.”

“Oh!” Lois’ eyes widened. “I hope I didn’t—”

“Throw suspicion on Phil Cox,” Stan supplied. “Well, you didn’t. Forget it, Lois. Those things are bound to be found out. What’s this woman’s name?”

“Helen Daniels,” she said after a short hesitation. She handed him two of the papers before her. “Here are the insurance figures on the crate factory.”

Stan gave them a brief survey and put them down. “And Trimmer?”

“He had twenty-five hundred dollars, twenty pay life, payable to a sister in New York. His application says that’s all he carried.”

“Thanks.” Stan started to go, turned and said, “Did a Charles Wentworth just leave here?”

“Wentworth?” Lois looked puzzled. “No. No one by that name was in here. Why?”

Stan shook his head. “Nothing. I heard there was an insurance investigator in town. I thought it might have been Wentworth.” He picked a pencil from the desk and twirled it in his fingers. “I was just about to risk getting shot myself.”

“What do you mean?” she asked whitening.

“I was about to ask Jupe Carnes’ fiancée to dance with me tonight at the River Inn.”

Color crept back into her face. “Mr. Carnes’ fiancée likes men who take risks, Mr. Rice. She might accept.”

“About nine-thirty?”

“Splendid.” Lois gave him her hand. “You’re headed for St. Augustine now, I suppose?”

“You’re a brilliant young lady,” Stan told her smilingly. “I’ll see you tonight.”

When the Buick rolled out of town half an hour later it was headed in the opposite direction from St. Augustine to a small store which Stan knew on the Peniel road. St. Augustine and Trimmer’s divorcée could wait. Stan wanted more accurate information about the man who had met sudden death the night before.

If anyone knew of any flaws in Trimmer’s past life it was Dad Fletcher, proprietor of Fletcher’s General Store. Dad spent most of his leisure time, which was plentiful, gathering choice tid-bits about customers and salesmen. He was never averse to passing them on, sometimes embellished beyond recognition.

Flat Florida country slipped by on both sides of the road. Tall turpentine-scarred pine trees grew thicker and vanished abruptly, giving way to a monotonous stretch of palmettos. A covey of quail scurried haughtily across the road and Stan sighed. His date with Buck Anders to visit good bird territory seemed dismally far away...

Half an hour later he was heading back to Palatka more puzzled than ever. His talk with Dad Fletcher had been productive, but not in the way Stan expected. It just didn’t make sense. Dad was emphatic in saying that Wallace Trimmer hadn’t an enemy in the world. The old man knew all the talk about Helen Daniels, and vigorously discounted the whole affair.

“Wally Trimmer never caused no divorce to no one,” Dad told Stan. “That woman and Wally was engaged decent as you please and she’s the finest as comes, same as him! You kin hunt your head off’n you, Stan,” he finished. “You ain’t never goin’ to find no one who wanted to shoot that boy!”

The words kept running drearily through Stan’s mind: “You ain’t never goin’ to find no one who wanted to shoot that boy!” By the time he was back in Palatka, he had decided that Dad Fletcher was right.

He stopped for a moment at the hotel. One of his telegrams had been answered. He whistled softly between his teeth as he read the reply. Phil Cox had spent five years in San Quentin. “They never quite lose the effects!” Stan muttered to himself. “I wonder where we go from here?”

He climbed into the Buick again and started over the long bridge to East Palatka to have a look at the River Inn.

The huge square one-story building was deserted, and proved to be an inn in name only. Stan crossed a wide dance floor, passed by a few scattered tables and a nickel-eating phonograph, and found himself in a small well stocked bar.

A tall, pasty-faced man in a white jacket walked down in back of the bar and stood before him. A long dank wisp of black hair was brushed down over one side of his head covering what Stan judged to be a cauliflower ear.

“Scotch,” said Stan, “and a little soda — very little soda!”

The bartender picked a bottle from under the counter and filled the order.

“Join me?” Stan asked.

“Why not?” said the man. His voice was gruff and harsh, alien to the musical drawl of the native Floridian. He downed his free drink in a single gulp, then started to move down the bar. It didn’t fit in at all with Stan’s plans.

Stan ordered another and said, “You have a pretty big place here. You must get plenty of crowds to fill such a hall.”

“Fair,” the bartender grunted.

“Dancing every night?”

“Tuesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. Why?”

Stan grinned. “I’m in Palatka for a week or so, and I thought I’d like to know.”

The bartender put an elbow on the bar and looked at Stan out of deep, opaque eyes, but said nothing.

“How were things last night?” Stan sipped his drink.

“Same as any other night.”

“I suppose there was a pretty big crowd.”

“Do you?” said the bartender. “Well, there wasn’t!”

“A couple of friends of mine were here,” Stan remarked casually. “Maybe you know them — Lois Gilbert and Jupe Carnes.”

“I know them when I see ’em.” The bartender smoothed his hair down closer over his ear.

“They were here, weren’t they?”

“Yeah.”

“That fire must have broken up your dance.” Stan swished the ice around in his glass. “Miss Gilbert told me she left when she heard the siren — she and Mr. Carnes. That was about two o’clock, wasn’t it?”

The bartender put his other elbow on the bar. “Yeah.” He narrowed his disagreeable eyes. “I keep a time sheet on each of our customers, mister. Now take you: I’ll report you to the police as soon as you leave.”

“Why?”

“Well, I had a run-in with the cops not so long ago because I didn’t know when some guy they were after left here. Since then I’ve kept tabs for ’em.”

Stan picked up his glass of whiskey and held it up to the light. His face was pained. “Swell!” he said. “You tell the police about me, and I’ll tell them about you. We’ll have a party!”

“Spill it, wise guy!” said the bartender tensely. “And it had better be good.”

“I’m wiser than you think,” said Stan. “Particularly about Scotch. They padlock places in this State that sell people diluted colored shine with a fancy label on it when they order Scotch whiskey.” He stood up and tossed the balance of his drink behind the bar. “Did Carnes and that girl leave here together last night, and what time?”

“You smelled like a dick to me when you come in!” the bartender said disgustedly. “I’ll tell you this then: Don’t ask me no more questions, because I don’t know. Carnes wasn’t here till no two o’clock last night. He left before that, but I don’t know when.”

Stan left the bar and went to a pay telephone in the other room. He called Chief Blunt: “Yes, Blunt, it’s important. I wouldn’t ask you to do it if it wasn’t! Okey, I’ll wait here and call you back.”

A few minutes later, the Palatka fire siren sounded again. It moaned on and on, but strangely enough was not followed by a bell tap announcing the station. Palatka, jittery from its recent series of blazes, waited tensely. All business ceased, and still the bell tap failed to come. The siren died away, leaving the telephone exchange deluged with anxious calls. Stan finally got through to Chief Blunt from East Palatka.

“O.K., Chief. Thanks! You’re what?” Stan laughed. “That’s your problem. I’ll be at your office in ten minutes.”

He found the officer red and perspiring. “Damn you, Stan!” the Chief greeted him. “The whole town’s been calling fire headquarters and here. I told them I was just testing, and I’m expecting a lynching party any minute. They said it was a hell of a time to be just testing.”

“Watch your blood pressure!” Stan grinned. “It’s better to test mid-afternoon than night. And I found out what I wanted to know.”

“What?” asked Blunt.

“If that siren could be heard at River Inn, two and a half miles away.”

“And you heard it?”

Stan nodded. “Not distinctly, but I heard it. Over the noise of the mills, the auto horns and everything. It could be heard much plainer at night — say, at two in the morning.”

“Proving what?” asked Blunt.

Stan walked to the window, clasped his hands behind him, and stood looking out at a garage across the way. “Lois Gilbert told me last night she heard that siren while she was over at the River Inn dancing with Carnes. She said they’d come right over here.” He turned abruptly and faced the Chief. “Do you think that girl would lie to cover up Jupiter Carnes? He might be in on a deal with the owners of these factories.”

“Naw! And I don’t think she’d carry anyone on anything if she thought it was wrong.” The Chief sat erratically drumming his fingers on the desk top.

“I know why Trimmer was killed,” said Stan.

Blunt stilled his drumming fingers. “What?”

Stan was slow in continuing, and when he spoke his voice was brittle with anger. “Wallace Trimmer was a decent fellow, Chief, and he got the rottenest break I’ve met in years: He was shot by mistake.”

“My Gawd, Stan!”

“There’s no motive for his murder. I’ve checked every possible angle. The real reason’s so obvious that we’ve all overlooked it. He was hit with a bullet intended for someone else.”

Chief Blunt wiped his broad forehead. “You know who that bullet was meant for?”

“I hope to know before ten tonight. I understand that Cox is due back on the eight-twenty train.”

“Cox!” The Chief sat up straight in his chair. “Now what the hell? You mean Cox fired that shot at someone else?”

Stan shook his head. “I don’t mean any such thing, but I did learn something about Phil today — he spent five years in the pen.”

“That settles it!” Blunt declared. “I’ll pick him up when he gets in town.”

Again Stan shook his head. “You’d better wait, Chief. You can help much more by telling me everything you can about Jupiter Carnes.”

“Now I know you’re nuts!” The Chief leaned back in his chair. “There’s not a nicer fellow in the town.”

“Tell me about him,” Stan insisted. “Wallace Trimmer was a nice fellow, too, and he’s dead. Has Carnes ever been North?”

“He spent a couple of years up there,” Blunt admitted reluctantly. “Learning the insurance business in Hartford and New York. There was talk that he played around a bit, but he was young and had money. His father died three years ago and left him the business he has now. He spends plenty, but he makes a lot and that doesn’t set well with some of the stuffed shirts around town. You’re on the wrong trail, Stan, if you’re tracking Jupe Carnes.”

“I’ve traveled a lot of wrong trails before,” said Stan. “What about the girl?”

“Lois? She came to Palatka a month or so after Jupe took over the business and went to work for him. I’ve heard that Jupe knew her in New York and had her come to Palatka. I think it’s a story put out by a lot of disappointed women.”

“You can do one more thing right now,” said Stan. “Call Carnes and get me a list of the mills which have increased their insurance during the last few days.”

“I’m afraid they all have, excepting the big ones. They always carry plenty. The small ones generally try to get by and lock the stable door after the mule has run away. You’ll find this epidemic of fires has scared them plenty. I’ll call though.”

He talked for a while on the phone, and hung up looking thoughtful. “There’s an old cuss named Jeb Randolph that you may want to talk to,” he told Stan. “He has a box factory on the river on that cove back of the big mill.”

“What’s the matter with him?”

“God made him naturally cantankerous,” said Blunt, “and he’s added forty thousand dollars insurance onto that junk pile of his within the last six days.”

Turning off River Street into a sawdust-filled corduroy road which ran through a low lying swamp to Randolph’s box factory, Stan pulled to one side of the narrow road to allow passage for an oncoming car. It went bouncing by at a dangerous speed, and Stan recognized Mr. Charles Wentworth’s red sedan. He sat for a moment looking through the back window of the coupe at the disappearing car. Then, abandoning the proposed interview with Jeb Randolph entirely, he maneuvered the Buick around on the tricky road and headed back for the hotel.

He made two telephone calls before dinner. The first, to the secretary of the Mill Owners Protective Association in Jacksonville, brought him the information that Jeb Randolph’s box factory had been losing money for some time, and that twenty thousand dollars would probably be liberal insurance on the entire affair. The second call was to Lois Gilbert. “I want to see Phil Cox when he gets back at about eight forty-five,” Stan told her. “I may be a bit late for our trip across the river.”

“It suits me fine,” she agreed readily. “I have some work to do at the office, anyhow. Suppose I call you at the hotel about ten.”

Stan was lingering over his second cup of coffee after dinner when he heard the distant whistle of the southbound Atlantic coastline train. He figured it would take Phil Cox at least half an hour to get to the fire house from the station. He ordered a cognac and sipped it unhurriedly, piecing together the events of the day. About quarter to nine he walked down to the fire house and found Buck Anders standing at the door.

“Is Phil Cox back yet?” Stan asked abruptly.

“Changing his clothes.” Buck jerked a thumb toward the upper floor.

“Tell him I want to see him, will you?”

Buck walked to the brass pole which led upward through a circular opening to the sleeping quarters above and called. Cox was slow in coming. Five minutes passed, then ten.

“Call him again, Buck,” said Stan. “This is important.”

Buck started for the brass pole a second time and was stopped short. With a warning whir the clapper of the shining gong on the wall moved slowly back and began to strike. Bong-bong! Bong — bong!

“Twenty-three!” said Buck before the second signal began. His voice was metallic as the brass of the gleaming La-France. “There’s plenty of hell now! That’s the barrel factory. We’ve got to roll fast or we’ll see nothing but ashes!”

The siren wailed out, calling the volunteers to action with its raucous summons. A larger bell tapped out the numbers from the tower of the City Hall. Buck had the pumper’s engine racing when Phil Cox slid down the brass pole and hit the floor with bent knees. When the LaFrance shot out of the station Stan was standing on the rear platform clinging to a strap beside Phil.

Anders slowed at the street long enough for four of the volunteer crew to swing on board. The machine roared off again, and was touching forty when it crossed Lemon Street on its dash to the mill.

Stan clung fast and prayed. They passed the scene of the previous night’s fire doing fifty, swung left with a lurch which wrenched Stan’s arm, and leaped the railroad tracks with a tooth-shaking jolt. Farther down, red over the top of huddled trees. Stan saw the glare.

The LaFrance slowed, turned left again onto the road which Stan had traversed half-way during the afternoon, and made another left turn skirting the swamp toward the river.

“Does this lead to Randolph’s box factory?” Stan yelled to Phil.

“No, that’s straight ahead. We’re headed.for the barrel factory half a mile this side. It’s too close to the Cypress Company’s lumber yards for comfort. If the yards ever caught — good night!”

Cars were trailing them in a crazy procession as volunteers poured out from every section of the town. The pumper stopped some thirty feet from the river’s edge, and Stan followed Buck and Phil as they hurriedly placed the sucker and coupled the hose together.

The flames were shooting high, bending before a strong wind, almost reaching one of the main buildings of the barrel factory. Water smashed into them, hissing shrilly and sending up a smoke screen of steam which rolled in toward the fast-gathering crowd.

A second hose was fastened to a hydrant connection. A minute later, water poured from it onto the side of the near-by building in a precautionary wetting.

Beside Stan, Buck Anders said, “Another piece of fool luck, if you ask me! I’m beginning to think some kids are startin’ these bonfires to see the fun. Who else would fire a waste pile fifty yards from the mill?”

Buck’s question struck Stan with the impact of an icy shower, straightening pieces of a diabolical puzzle neatly into line. Fifty feet away, the helmeted figure of Phil Cox was directing the heavy brass nozzle of the hose.

“Phil!” Stan yelled. “Phil Cox!”

Stan started to run. He had taken less than six steps when he knew he had blundered, been unforgivably dense, waited irretrievably too long. Gouging through the sputtering crackle of the burning brush, he heard the spat of a gun from the swamp behind him.

The nozzle wavered in Phil Cox’s hands. The hose writhed, turning the powerful stream of water away from the fire and toward the sky. Slowly, as though ineffably tired, Cox wilted to the ground.

Stan turned and headed for the swamp without breaking his stride. Blackness sucked him in. He tore with desperation at impeding bushes which clung to him ruthlessly, checking his way. Blackthorns ripped at his hands and, with an oath, he tore himself free.

The flickering, deceitful light from the pyre brought black shadows of vegetation to life, scattering them in a living army through the swamp until the morass was peopled with a malign hoard of enemies all working for his destruction.

He found freedom from the brush, but water splashed high on his knees. Bushes moved ahead and a gun spat again, sending a whining slug of destruction close by his ear. It tore bark from a cypress and started a hollow, bounding echo on its way. Sobbing in his throat, Stan started in pursuit again, but the wraithlike noise he was chasing was farther away. Twigs crackled more faintly.

A moment later, the confines of the swamp were still. When bruised and torn he burst from the swamp onto the corduroy road, he faced the calmly smoking figure of Charles Wentworth seated on the running-board of his red sedan.

“Did you see anyone come out of here?” Stan gasped demandingly.

Mr. Wentworth looked him over with surprise, slowly sharpened the crease of his well pressed trousers between thumb and finger, and said, “No, buddy, not a soul.”

Wearily Stan hobbled down the road toward the scene of the fire. Silently he pushed through the ominously muttering crowd until headlights glinted on Chief Blunt’s brass buttons and blue.

The Chief looked at Stan’s scratched face and ripped-up clothes and said, “What the hell?”

Stan drew him free of the crowd, pointed to Phil Cox’s motionless form and said, “Dead?”

Blunt nodded morosely.

“I blame myself for that,” said Stan with expressive calmness. “I’m a chuckle-headed fool!”

“Why?” The Chief gave a friendly touch to Stan’s arm.

“Why?” Stan repeated bitterly. “Because the real reason why these fires were started just penetrated my thick head a few minutes ago. A child could see these aren’t arson, Blunt.”

“Then what are they?”

“Murder traps!” said Stan. “Set to get a man who answered every alarm in Palatka because he was a member of the Fire Department — Phil Cox!”

“There’ve been four.”

“That’s what threw me off. Something must have gone wrong for the killer at the first two. Something went desperately wrong at the third, for Wallace Trimmer, handling the sucker, was mistaken for Phil silhouetted against the glare.”

“But fires, Stan—” The Chief breathed deeply and paused.

“The best cover-up for a shooting I ever heard of. Crowds, excitement, and plenty of noise. Tonight you saw it work without a flaw.” His mouth set grimly and he turned away.

“Where are you going?” asked Blunt.

“Dancing,” said Stan. “Dancing at the River Inn.”

Driving across the St. John’s River bridge toward River Inn, Stan stole a glance at Lois. She seemed content to sit beside him and watch the twin row of lights rushing to meet them. Not until they ran off onto the brick road and swung left toward East Palatka did she speak. Then it was only to say, “You’re quiet. Is something the matter?”

Stan slowed down and lighted a cigarette from the dash lighter. “I guess I’m upset. There was another fire tonight, you know.”

She took the cigarette from between his lips, inhaled, and passed it back to him. “You can’t very well miss knowing when there’s a fire in Palatka.”

“No,” said Stan, “you can’t. You didn’t go to the one tonight, did you?”

She hesitated almost imperceptibly before she said, “No, I didn’t. I had to tear through a pile of work, as it was, to come over here with you.”

“It’s kind of you to take pity on a lonely man.”

“Don’t sound so tragic!” Lois laughed. “You’re moving me to tears.”

“Men must work and women must weep,” said Stan swinging into the road to River Inn.

The place was a babble of noise and smoke. The cauliflower-eared bartender gave them a glance as they came in the door and turned quickly away. The dance hall was dimly lighted. A dozen or more couples were moving about the floor to the blare of the victrola.

Stan found a table, sat down, and ordered Scotch highballs from a Negro waiter. “Tell that whiskey surgeon in there that if he cuts that Scotch to shreds I’ll carve his heart out!”

“What you say?” the waiter demanded, widening his eyes.

“Forget it,” said Stan. “Double talk! Hustle along.” He folded his arms, rested them on the edge of the table and looked across at Lois. “Do you love Jupiter Carnes?” he asked flatly.

She bit her lip hard, then laughed. “You’re a delightfully insulting man! I’m engaged to him! Let’s dance!”

Stan took her in his arms and they moved out on the floor. “Jupe knows I’m over here with you,” she said after a few steps. “Just because I’m engaged to him, he doesn’t try to keep me in a cage.”

“I’m afraid I would,” said Stan, “if you were engaged to me.”

She moved a trifle closer and said, “I’m not.”

“Where was he tonight?” asked Stan. “I didn’t see him at the fire either.”

“He was at the office until a short time ago.” Lois missed a step. “As a matter of fact, he said he might join us later here.”

Stan deftly avoided a slightly drunken couple and said without preamble, “I suppose you heard Phil Cox was murdered — shot through the head.”

Her body tightened in his arms and she stopped short. “Please,” she said, releasing herself.

Stan followed her to the table and pulled out her chair. “Just like Trimmer,” she said, her voice low.

Stan nodded. She drained her highball and asked, “Could we go now? I don’t feel much like dancing. I knew Phil, knew him quite well.”

“But you have no idea who killed him?”

“None,” she said emphatically. “How would I know?”

“I just thought you might,” Stan told her casually. “I learned today that you’ve been married to him for ten years.”

He took her arm, holding it hard, and helped her outside and into the car. “Pull yourself together, Lois,” he said kindly. “I’ll pay the check and be right back.”

Inside, he beckoned the surly bartender to the end of the bar. “I want the truth, and I want it fast,” he told the man. “You can take your choice between talking and having this clip joint visited by cops every day for the next six months. What time did that girl I was with just now leave this place last night?”

The bartender wet his lips and said, “One o’clock.”

“She was here with Jupiter Carnes. Did they leave together?”

“They had an argument. I think he got mad and left first and she followed.”

“She didn’t go home in his car?”

The bartender hesitated, caught the glint in Stan’s eyes, and said, “So help me, mister, I ain’t sure, but I think she drove across the river with some other guy.”

“Next time tell the truth right away and you’ll save trouble,” Stan advised and went back out to the car.

Lois was huddled disconsolately in one corner of the seat. Stan pushed the Buick savagely into gear and got it under way. “How long has Carnes known you were married to Phil Cox?” he demanded when they were on the road.

“I don’t know.” He could scarcely hear her.

“Why did you lie about him last night and tonight? You’re in a murder case, Lois, and you’d better come clean.”

“Jupe didn’t kill him!” she screamed suddenly. “He didn’t, I tell you, he didn’t!” Her voice trailed off and everything was quiet inside the car.

They were on the bridge when Lois began to speak again. Stan drove slowly, keeping silent, afraid to show sympathy for fear she would break down again and begin to cry.

“I loved Phil Cox devotedly years ago.” She spoke as though Stan were not present, telling her story to the yellow lights which flickered by. “He was sent to San Quentin for arson and I stayed by him until he escaped. His real name was Phil Gilbert, the name I go by now. His escape was a mistake. We became hunted things and had to separate until Phil came here. He sent for me three years ago. He was still afraid, frightened all the time, and we couldn’t live together.

She straightened up in the seat and said more firmly, “I fell in love with Jupiter Carnes. Phil understood, but I was on the spot. I was afraid to get a divorce, for fear it would stir things up and start the hunt for Phil all over again. Two weeks ago everything toppled about my ears. One of Phil’s old arson gang came to town and recognized us both. I was in an insurance office, and Phil in the Fire Department — a perfect setup for arson, according to this man.” She turned to Stan. “You saw him today.”

“Yes,” said Stan. “I’ve checked him also. He’s registered under the name of Charles Wentworth at the hotel.”

“He threatened to turn Phil up unless we played,” Lois went on. “Both of us refused, and he started his game by writing Jupe an anonymous note saying I was married, but not saying to whom.”

Her voice broke slightly, but she recovered herself again. “You must see, Stan, you must understand! Jupe would have had no reason in the world for killing Phil. He didn’t know Phil was my husband. You have to help me!”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Stan said kindly. “What’s the rest of it, Lois? What’s Wentworth doing to town right now?”

“He’s planning a fire, I’m sure. Listen, Stan,” she said desperately, “I had to fall in with his plans part way. He intends to set off one of two mills tonight — Carter’s moss factory out at the end of Lemon Street, or Randolph’s box factory at the bend of the river. Both of them are heavily insured. I don’t know which, for he doesn’t trust me that far, but I can find out if you’ll help me trap him.”

“Good girl!” said Stan. “It’s a deal!”

“I know he’s talked to Carter,” she added, “but I don’t know which will go first.”

“I’ll be back in a minute,” Stan told Lois, “and we can make our plans.” He climbed out of the car in front of his hotel and ran upstairs. He took his Colt .38 from his Gladstone bag, and slipped the heavy weapon in the side pocket of his topcoat. He put his flash-light on the other side, and was back downstairs in less than five minutes.

In the lobby he called the police station. A long series of rings produced no reply. As he stepped from the porch, Lois ran in through the front door of the lobby and crossed quickly to where he stood. Her face was white and drawn.

“Wentworth’s sedan just headed up Lemon Street!” she told Stan. “There’s no time to lose! He’s bound for the Moss factory, I’m sure!”

“Watch him!” said Stan curtly. “I’ll be there right away.”

Stan turned around and swore. The night clerk who had been back of the desk a few minutes before had disappeared, gone on some errand of his own. The lobby was entirely deserted. Stan seized a souvenir postcard from a rack on the desk, wrote on it: “Blunt: Moss factory, quick! Stan,” and laid it face up on the open guest register.

He spied a blue pencil in back of the cigar case, reached around for it, and scrawled in big letters on the guest register “Night Clerk: Get this to the Chief of Police in a hurry!”

When he climbed into the Buick, the red sedan was nowhere in sight. “He turned off a few blocks up,” said Lois. “He’s probably going up Reid Street. We can pick him up again.”

The moss factory was near sixteenth street close beside the colored section of town. It was a prosperous plant which collected, dried, and cured the abundant Spanish Moss which festooned the Florida trees. Dried and cured, the moss turned a deep brownish black and formed a servicable stuffing for fine furniture. It was highly inflammable in the drying stage. Stan knew that, once started, a fire in the moss factory would be far beyond control before help could possibly arrive.

He pulled the Buick into the curb and said, “You better get out here, Lois. This may not be much fun!”

“Hurry!” she commanded. “I know how they work. I’m going along.”

He started the pursuit again without arguing. The moss factory loomed up a couple of blocks away, a square smudge in the dark. There was no sight of the red sedan. Stan turned the Buick off the road into a vacant lot, put out the lights, and climbed out. Wordlessly, Lois followed.

The negro section of the town spread out to their right, flat and treeless. An occasional light showed dimly among the scattered unpainted houses. Beyond, the factory lay on low irregular terrain.

They circled and stole up on the unadorned squareness of the factory from the rear. Stan led the way around it, keeping close to the wall. His searching fingers found the knob of the office door, but when he started to turn it, he discovered the door was slightly ajar.

It was all too pat, too delightfully careless to be real. He held Lois back with a restraining arm, stood to one side and pushed the door wide with his toe. It creaked slightly, sending a magnified rasp into the pitchy interior of the office. Minutes later he stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and clicked his five-cell torch into brightness.

Shadows of desk and files grew large on the walls and collapsed again as the light moved on. Led by its ray, Stan and Lois explored a baling room to their right, probed behind presses, and bales of moss stacked high along the sides. Satisfied that the baling room was empty, Stan paused before a red fireproof door which barred the way to the back part of the factory. The door was locked, secured by a heavy Yale padlock.

“No one went through there,” Stan whispered. “Do you know what’s on the other side?”

“It’s the drying room.” Lois’ lips moved close to his ear. “Wentworth will try to start his fire in there.”

“There must be another way to get in.”

He clicked off the light. For a moment there was no sound except Lois’s excited breathing. Finally she said, “I believe there’s a chute from the roof where they send the moss down. If it’s open—”

Stan turned on the light again, swung it toward a narrow staircase in the corner and said, “Let’s go.”

A trap-door barred their way at the top. He pushed it up, climbed through and stood under the stars. The breeze against his face was cold, free of the dank pungency which permeated the baling room below. He took a few steps before he turned. The upper half of Lois’s body showed above the opening in the roof, motionless, as though some clever magician were bringing her into existence with his trick half finished.

She pointed to his left, raising her arm slowly. A rectangle of black showed at his feet close to the edge. His torch glinted dully on a wooden chute worn smooth and shiny from the scratch of sliding moss.

The violent shove which sent him inside, clutching at air, came without the faintest noise which might have warned him. He realized afterward that the entrance to the slide was guarded with twelve inch boards set on edge around the opening. The man he was seeking must have been lying pressed flat to one side of the rectangle, skillfully merged with the shadows.

Stan plunged swiftly down, grabbing helplessly at the hard glassy slide. The breathless descent stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Clinging tendrils of moss were all about him, trailing across his face and eyes, brushing at his groping hands.

His torch was gone. He lay back, quietly watching the stars through the opening above him. Even as he looked they disappeared and he knew the opening to the roof had been covered with a heavy door.

The moss was soft and yielding, odorous with the acid of decomposition. He sneezed and shifted his weight as he felt himself sinking down. The moss followed, persistent with its repugnant caresses.

He lay rigidly, spreading wide his arms and legs as a man might do in clutching sands. Life came into the tendrils surrounding him, slow creeping life. Silently they moved against his flesh, furtive as crawling insects in the dark. He sneezed again, and gleefully they closed in, cloaking his mouth and nose with smothering strands.

Panic threatened him, exhausting his strength and numbing his senses at the imminence of drowning in thirty feet of dank dry sea. He began to fight, flailing his arms and kicking his feet with the frenzy of a choking swimmer. The moss closed in, stealthy as a lustful harpy seeking to strangle a weakening lover in the thick strong strands of her hair.

Twice he called, muffled ineffectual yells which reached nowhere. Then icy calmness stilled his dangerous struggles. Fiercely, watching his direction by instinct, hoarding his breath, using his powerful muscles to the greatest advantage, he began to fight his way down and through. A locked fire door was his goal, but it was the single chance which would bring him out alive. Acrid smoke was already stinging his nostrils. The moss plant was aflame!

The blackness was cut by licking fire. Unexpectedly Stan found he was free of the deadly, yielding moss pile. He had come out of the sloping heap at one side. Straight before him, illuminated waveringly by a green, unearthly flare, the thick fire door barred his way.

Blinded by streaming sweat, he stood swaying slightly, listening to the wail of a siren drawing near. Flame rolled slowly down the side of the moss pile pushing a cloud of choking smoke before it, driving Stan closer against the wall. Desperately he grasped one end of the door and shook it with an insane frenzy. It moved ponderously half an inch out from the wall and settled into place again.

He stepped back, dashed perspiration from his eyes, and studied the door through a haze of scalding tears. It was a matter of minutes, he knew. Fumes were already tearing at his lungs, turning each breath into agony. The flicker of the burning pile changed from green to crimson. With the brighter light he saw that the sliding door was hung at the top from two grooved rollers which allowed it to move along an iron bar.

Weakly he leaned against the wall to think, knowing that one man, no matter how strong, could never lift it free. Close beside him something toppled over, slid scrapingly along the wall, and struck the cement floor with a dull metallic clang. Stan dropped to his knees, gratefully sucked in a gulp of the slightly cooler air, and found he was staring at a long-handled spade.

He acted mechanically from then on, his shadow dancing against the wall with the grotesque humor of a demonish stoker engaged in some infernal scene. The door hung two inches from the floor. With the full weight of his body behind the stroke, he jammed the sturdy handle of the spade beneath the door, working from the front end toward the rear. Two feet of the handle disappeared, shoved underneath, parallel to the wall.

The first time it slipped. He swore, tried again, found leverage, and with every back muscle called into play, began to raise. The ash snapped threateningly, then held until one of the rollers on top of the door was raised above the bar. Bracing the crushing weight of the shovel against his hip, Stan released his hands and pulled the heavy door inward until the roller was free. One more lunge, which approached sheer madness, dragged the loose end of the door two feet into the blazing room. An instant later he squeezed through and dropped inertly to the baling room floor, drinking in fresh air.

Smoke rolled in through the crack of the fire door behind him. Light streamed against the dirty windows of the baling room. It took him some moments to realize that the moss factory was ringed outside with the headlights of myriad cars.

Voices shouted indistinguishable words outside the plant, filling the air with sound. Stan forced himself to stand erect. Reeling crazily he zig-zagged toward the office door. Then flesh and clothing suddenly tugged at his feet. He slumped to his knees, supported himself with one blistered hand, and saw he had stumbled over the unconscious form of Jupe Carnes.

Great noxious billows of smoke were clouding the baling room now. The desire to lie down beside Carnes and peacefully sleep was almost too much to bear. He fought the pleasant idea ruthlessly. Carnes was breathing raucously, short sharp gasps which ended in a terrifying rattle.

Laboriously Stan hooked fingers into Carnes’ collar and began to inch him toward the door. When he reached up and turned the knob with a painful effort, he found it was locked on the other side.

Cold air struck the smoke and banked it into a swirling cloud of gray. Through the clear Stan saw a window had been raised and that someone was climbing through. His head grew steadier with the sharpness of the breeze. He rolled away from Carnes as hurrying footsteps dashed across the floor.

Lois Gilbert dropped to her knees and screamed: “Jupe! Jupe! He’s dead! He’s dead! God in heaven what shall I do?”

Close behind her Stan moved to a sitting position. Her voice trailed mournfully away as she turned and caught the glint of his blood red eyes. “One thing you can do is drop that sash weight, Lois.” His split, charred lip widened in a terrifying grin. “Jupe’s a hell of a sight from being dead and you’re not going to kill him. If you make a move I’ll ruin your pretty face with a bullet between your eyes!”

An hour later in the doctor’s office, Chief Blunt said, “I don’t care if you are wrapped up like a country ham, you have to talk. I’m holding Lois Gilbert on your say-so. I want to know what I’m doing it for.”

One of Stan’s ordinarily blue eyes twinkled at him like a winking miniature tail-light through a slit in the encompassing bandages. “She killed Trimmer and Phil Cox, and damn near got Carnes and me.”

“Don’t write a book,” said Blunt wearily. “Why?”

“Trimmer was a mistake, as I told you. She wanted Phil out of the way so she could marry Jupe Carnes. Jupe was suspicious of her, suspicious that she’d shot Trimmer. He followed her. That’s what he was acting so suspiciously about at the crate mill fire. That’s why his feet were wet. He’d been down to the edge of the river. I got off on the wrong track thinking she was lying to cover up Carnes. Actually she was lying to cover up herself.”

“Lying about what?”

“The time they left the River Inn last night. I got the real dope from the bartender there tonight. Both of them left there about one — plenty of time for either of them to start the fire and pull Trimmer’s accidental killing. I sprung it on her at the Inn tonight that I knew she was married to Phil. I got his record today by wiring a description of his prints to the F.B.I. in Washington.”

“Where did you get them?”

“From a hoze nozzle in the fire house. Say my lips hurt and I dislike persistent policemen.”

“Not as much as I hate secretive detectives,” said Blunt. “What did the F.B.I. say?”

Stan tried to scratch a bandaged nose with a bandaged hand and gave it up. “They gave me Phil’s real name — Phil Gilbert, and I connected it up with her. I also got an identification of my good friend Charles Wentworth by wiring his description to the Miami police. He’s familiarly known as Lighthouse Billy Blane.”

“He’s Hoosegow Billy Blane right now,” said Blunt. “Our efficient motorcycle cop picked him up as he was scooting out of town. He spilled himself as soon as he was nabbed.”

“He’s the type,” said Stan in muffled tones. “What did he say?”

“Well, seems Jupe must have trailed you and the gal to the moss plant and tried to stop her. She cracked him over the head in the baling room, intending to kill him according to Wentworth. Due to your note sent me from the hotel, I arrived with the fire department before we were expected. She got panicky and beat it outside, but waited around. When she saw the department was getting things under control and that Carnes wasn’t going to be roasted, she slipped in through a window to finish the job. The fire was all in back in the moss room, and the crowd was all at the other end. I guess she thought if she yelled loud enough everyone would think she’d found Jupe dead. She was positive you were.”

“She must have played with too many matches as a kid,” Stan declared through the bandages. “She thinks too fast for her own good. She gave me a honey of a story coming across the river tonight and I damn near fell for it all. It was almost true, too, except that she said Phil had escaped from San Quentin when I knew he hadn’t. He’d served all of his time.”

“Anyhow, she told me too much to leave me alive. Even though it was a beautiful mixture of truth and fiction. She said that Wentworth was going to fire either the moss plant, or Randolph’s mill tonight. I knew it wasn’t Randolph’s. I saw Wentworth driving on the road out there today. Any expert firebug keeps away from a plant he intends to fire.”

“What the hell did Wentworth and the girl go into the firebug business for, anyway?”

“Well, Wentworth said that it was the girl’s idea. Lois tried to get the owners to double their insurance and then set fire to their places. She didn’t put it that boldly to ’em, but they understood and would have none of it. Then she started setting fire to a few of the factories to frighten ’em into it. If they’d take out more insurance, see, she’d get the commission.”

“Money mad, huh?” Stan said.

“Guess so. One of the reasons she wanted to marry Carnes. Then she had to try to kill him to keep him from talking when he got hep to her. Anyway, under cover of her fires she tried to kill Phil Cox — tried until she finally got him. Sort of killing two birds with one fire. Kill off Cox so she could marry Carnes and scare the factory owners into taking out more insurance and eventually falling for her arson plan.”

Stan nodded and asked ruefully, “There’s one thing I can’t understand. Somehow she and Wentworth planned a trap for me at that moss factory, but damned if I can figure out when.”

Blunt laughed. “I know the answer to that, too. She saw Wentworth while you were in the hotel getting your gun. She told him to beat it up to the factory and hide along the chute on the roof. She said she’d get you there — and she did. You were always a sucker for dames.”

“If that guy’s beaten up as badly as I think he is,” Stan mumbled, “I’ll be scared to look at him in the morning. I wish I’d caught her in the swamp tonight and saved myself getting fried. The way I’m taped up I doubt if I can eat.”

“You could if you were dead! Besides, I brought you something,” said Blunt with a leer. “A bottle of milk! The doctor says you must have nothing but liquids for a month and drink them through a tube. If you so much as mention Miles Standish Rice, the Hungry, I’ll conk you one, so help me!”