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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.”
    â€œIf 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.
    F or 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