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?”

“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?”

Alias Blackford understood. He lay like a sack of soggy straw and nodded only with an effort. Dully he watched the two Delaneys move away.

“But how . . . how,” began the old fire-eater, “how did you ever get next to all this? You’re leaving a lot of it out. I’ve done some detecting in my time, but I never grabbed clues out of thin air that way.”

“Thin air,” grinned the detective. “No thin air about that. I had to take some awful beatings to get that dope. Don’t I look like it?”

“You sure do,” affirmed the elder Delaney, gruffly. “What happened to you?”

“They caught me at the Tyler store when I came out with Blackford. Smashed me on the head with a sap, carried me off and set a fire under me. They thought I knew a lot more than I did. Blackford thought I was wise when he first laid eyes on me. He tipped off his boys to be on the alert and then when I found some bottle glass inside—”

“Bottle glass?”

“Sure. I was going to take it up to the laboratory for analysis just on a hunch. And Blackford knew that I’d find a trace of nitroglycerin on that fragment. And when I did, I’d be sure the fire was of incendiary origin. He was scared, and when we came out he signaled his boys to jump me.

“They tied me up in a closet and wired a bottle of ‘soup’ to the doorbell. Then they went out and established an alibi and sent a messenger boy back to the house to ring the bell. He rang it and blowie! The place was on fire.”

“Nitroglycerin set off by electricity,” growled the fire-eater. “What the devil will pyromaniacs think up next? You were mighty lucky to get out, Son. It looks like those fellows meant business.”

“I’ll say they did. They weren’t going to have their game queered if they could help it. You see, Blackford made that snatch look good by having himself knocked out, supposedly. I found a cotton blackjack on one of his boys. If it hadn’t been for the blackjack and that piece of glass, we’d still be fighting fires all over the town.”

“And thanks to you, we aren’t,” said old Delaney with more than a hint of pride. He pulled at his mustache and then looked up to see an acquaintance coming toward him. “Hello, Morley.”

Morley of Graysons’ Insurance came up beside them.

“So you’re the fair-haired lad that cleared up this mess.” He touched the detective’s shoulder. “Is it against your code to accept rewards?”

“Well,” hesitated the younger Delaney, “we don’t usually— Wait a minute. You need some new carts and hose, don’t you, Dad?”

“Gosh, yes. They got me cut to the bone.”

“Fine,” said the detective. “Hear that? Tell your company to make out the reward as a donation to the fire department. They shouldn’t be very slow in doing that.”

“I’ll say not,” replied the insurance agent. “You’ve saved us something like a million dollars in claims, maybe more. I don’t think Graysons’ will forget it very fast. In fact, we’d like to get you appointed in Blackford’s place. We’ve got the influence, you know.”

“Huh,” grunted the fire-eater. “That isn’t such a bad idea. Better pay and shorter hours. What about it, Son?”

“Not bad. Maybe I could keep you out of hot water. An hour ago, extras were on the streets saying that you were going to be kicked out. Hurts the family prestige, things like that. I guess I’d better take the job.” The detective grinned.

“I always said I’d make a fireman out of you,” growled Blaze Delaney, and then fell to tugging fiercely at his mustache to hide the pleasure in his smoke-stung eyes.