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handy?”
    â€œYou’re in a devil of
a hurry.” He fished a revolver out of a cluttery drawer and pushed it across
into Delaney’s hands. “You better clean up before you go out. That’s a helluva
way to go off duty.”
    â€œI’m not going off
duty,” Delaney shot over his shoulder. “And I’ll look worse in no time at all.”
He leaned over the railing and barked at the desk sergeant: “Where can I find
my dad?”
    â€œDunno,” said the
sergeant ponderously. “There’s three unattended fires waiting for him right
now, and I don’t know which he’ll hit first. But I ain’t supposed to know.”
    Delaney soared down
the flights of steps, pausing only long enough to detail a man to return
Terrill’s car. He found his own machine at the curb and climbed aboard. The
exhaust whistle chortled insanely and the car swerved headlong into a cluster
of taxis which parted like frightened chickens.
    But the detective cut
down his speed and shut off the racket two blocks away from his destination. As
softly and silently as a ghost, he drifted into a parking place opposite a pool
hall he knew very well.
    He sat
for an instant getting his breath before he climbed down, looking up at the red
glows which spotted the sky. At no time in its history had the city seen so
many fires burning at the same time. The newspapers had exhausted themselves
sending out extras. Delaney saw a paper now in the hand of a howling boy. He
received a glimpse of the headlines.
    Mayor to Oust Delaney!
NEGLIGENCE—
    So they were going to
put the skids under his dad after all, in spite of anything Blaze Delaney could
do. Right now the chief of fire-eaters was out fighting the battle of his life
against flame, and up in the city hall—or more likely in a comfortable sitting
room, this time of night—the mayor was denouncing and forgetting that he had
cut down the fire department himself in the name of economy.
    But the detective had
too many things on his mind to worry long about mere mayors. He got out of his
car and walked slowly and purposefully in the direction of the lighted
entrance.
    From within came the
sounds of clicking balls and arguing men. An electric piano poured out its
strident heart in an attempt to drown conversation. An electric sign advertised
“Joe’s Social Hall. Beer. Snooker Pool.”
    Delaney pushed back
both swinging doors at once and stepped through into the yellow lights. The
bartender glanced up from a dice game, surprise making his face flabby.
    â€œWhat’s the matter,
Delaney?” croaked the loose throat.
    But the detective was
not there to waste talk. He stalked along the length of the bottle-flanked
mirrors until he saw his quarry.
    Soapy Jackson and
Connely were leaning over cues. They were without their coats and the caliber
of the place was clearly emphasized by the fact that both mobsters exhibited
shoulder holsters in plain sight.
    Connely’s chin went in
with a jerk and he blinked his black beady eyes. He touched Jackson’s shoulder.
    â€œ Pipe the dick .”
    Evenly, as though
motivated by a slow-motion mechanism, Jackson turned. But Jackson’s nerves were
not as good as Connely’s. His hands started to shake and he dropped his cue
with a startled “Gosh! Delaney!”
    The detective’s hand
was suddenly shadowed by a revolver.
    â€œI want you two
birds,” he snapped. “Get your coats.”
    But the two gangsters
were not without friends. Before they could move, a pistol butt and face jutted
up over Delaney’s shoulder and the butt started down. Jackson’s eyes narrowed
instinctively and the detective understood with a practice born of a thousand
such situations. He dived sideways and his gun roared. The puffy-faced wielder
of the weapon swore luridly and grabbed at his blood-spurting wrist.
    Connely’s hand shot to
his shoulder holster and came out spitting. His