CHAPTER TWO

Ready For Roasting

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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