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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.

CHAPTER THREE
    Talking Business
    W ITHOUT knowing just how he came
to be there, he sat up on the lawn and looked at the burning structure, which
now was sending showers of sparks and geysers of flames into the black night.
Smoke rolled starward and mushroomed down like some evil bird of prey.
    Delaney got to his
feet and walked as rapidly as possible toward the sidewalk, watching the
gathering crowd for a bluecoat. Someone opened the gate for him and then a
policeman materialized with an amazed gasp.
    â€œDelaney! What the
devil are you—” And then he saw the gag and quickly removed it. From his pocket
he whipped a knife with which he cut the rope that held the detective’s hands.
    â€œThanks, Terrill,”
said Delaney, moving his sore mouth as little as possible. “Did you turn in an
alarm?”
    â€œSure I did, but I
haven’t seen nothin’ of the outfit yet.”
    â€œProbably busy at two
or three other fires. Where’s your patrol car?”
    Terrill pointed to the
machine and elbowed a way for the detective. People jamming the sidewalk shook
their heads and murmured sullenly about the laxity of the fire department.
Delaney gave no sign that he heard, his mind too busy with the project at hand.
He slid under the wheel.
    â€œI’ll send this back
from Headquarters,” he said. “Stand by for the fire engines.” He pulled the
whistle cord wide open and went hurtling away through the traffic.
    Blaze Delaney was not
the only one who prided himself on being able to put a car through the streets
in a hurry. He had passed the ability on to his son. Within five minutes, the
detective braked in front of Headquarters and leaped out, sprinting up the
three floors to the squad room.
    His inspector gasped
across his desk through the open door.
    â€œDelaney! What on
earth have you been into? You look like a cinder.”
    â€œI feel like one,”
said the detective. “I lost my gun. Got one