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fire-dulled splinter from the investigator and shoved it into his pocket.
    â€œMaybe so, but I’ll
analyze this for explosive or acid. Nothing like being thorough.”
    He began to search the
floor over a radius of fifteen feet. Painstakingly he went over the charred and
littered surface, moving unrecognizable objects, examining others. And then he
found a piece of copper wire. Slowly he traced it down and uncovered another
thread of metal.
    â€œDoes insulation burn
off extension cords?” he asked.
    â€œSometimes.”
    â€œBut if these things
had had insulation on them, there’d be charred pieces. And”—he reached down and
scooped up a bit of straw—“ excelsior .”
    Blackford smiled
tolerantly. “They pack a lot of things in excelsior in department stores. Come
on, I’ve got to get busy. We have a certain routine that usually gives us the
answer, and I’ll have to have a report in another hour. I’m going outside and
get another battery for my light. This thing is getting pretty dim.”
    Delaney nodded. “I’ll
go with you.”
    They worked through
the choking fog to the door, skirting the ruins in the aisles and carefully
avoiding the spot where the dead girl lay.
    When they stepped into
the open air, Delaney took a long, deep, grateful breath.
    â€œI’ll get the morgue
squad,” he said, “and then go up to Headquarters and analyze this glass.” Idly
he watched a black sedan draw up to the curb not ten feet away.
    â€œOkay,” said
Blackford. “If you find anything—”
    A pistol shot, as
vicious as it was unexpected, gouged the concrete near Delaney’s feet. A harsh,
strident voice bellowed:
    â€œUp with the mitts,
you guys, or we’ll let you have it.”
    Delaney started to
reach for his own gun and then realized that he was checkmated. Slowly he
elevated his hands and watched two men walk toward him through the thin stream
of light from the street lamp.
    â€œConnely,” grunted the
detective. “And Soapy Jackson.”
    â€œKnow us, do you?”
grated Connely. “Seen us in the lineup, that it? Turn around, both of you!”
    Delaney turned because
he knew that this pair always meant what they said. He saw Soapy Jackson bring
a blackjack down on Blackford’s head—and then something crashed against his own
skull. He stumbled bitterly forward into unconsciousness.

CHAPTER TWO
    Ready For Roasting
    T HEY 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.
    â€œGit 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.
    â€œY’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.
    â€œThis 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.
    â€œListen,