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“It suits me fine,” she agreed readily. “I have some work to do at the office, anyhow. Suppose I call you at the hotel about ten.”

Stan was lingering over his second cup of coffee after dinner when he heard the distant whistle of the southbound Atlantic coastline train. He figured it would take Phil Cox at least half an hour to get to the fire house from the station. He ordered a cognac and sipped it unhurriedly, piecing together the events of the day. About quarter to nine he walked down to the fire house and found Buck Anders standing at the door.

“Is Phil Cox back yet?” Stan asked abruptly.

“Changing his clothes.” Buck jerked a thumb toward the upper floor.

“Tell him I want to see him, will you?”

Buck walked to the brass pole which led upward through a circular opening to the sleeping quarters above and called. Cox was slow in coming. Five minutes passed, then ten.

“Call him again, Buck,” said Stan. “This is important.”

Buck started for the brass pole a second time and was stopped short. With a warning whir the clapper of the shining gong on the wall moved slowly back and began to strike. Bong-bong! Bong — bong!

“Twenty-three!” said Buck before the second signal began. His voice was metallic as the brass of the gleaming La-France. “There’s plenty of hell now! That’s the barrel factory. We’ve got to roll fast or we’ll see nothing but ashes!”

The siren wailed out, calling the volunteers to action with its raucous summons. A larger bell tapped out the numbers from the tower of the City Hall. Buck had the pumper’s engine racing when Phil Cox slid down the brass pole and hit the floor with bent knees. When the LaFrance shot out of the station Stan was standing on the rear platform clinging to a strap beside Phil.

Anders slowed at the street long enough for four of the volunteer crew to swing on board. The machine roared off again, and was touching forty when it crossed Lemon Street on its dash to the mill.

Stan clung fast and prayed. They passed the scene of the previous night’s fire doing fifty, swung left with a lurch which wrenched Stan’s arm, and leaped the railroad tracks with a tooth-shaking jolt. Farther down, red over the top of huddled trees. Stan saw the glare.

The LaFrance slowed, turned left again onto the road which Stan had traversed half-way during the afternoon, and made another left turn skirting the swamp toward the river.

“Does this lead to Randolph’s box factory?” Stan yelled to Phil.

“No, that’s straight ahead. We’re headed.for the barrel factory half a mile this side. It’s too close to the Cypress Company’s lumber yards for comfort. If the yards ever caught — good night!”

Cars were trailing them in a crazy procession as volunteers poured out from every section of the town. The pumper stopped some thirty feet from the river’s edge, and Stan followed Buck and Phil as they hurriedly placed the sucker and coupled the hose together.

The flames were shooting high, bending before a strong wind, almost reaching one of the main buildings of the barrel factory. Water smashed into them, hissing shrilly and sending up a smoke screen of steam which rolled in toward the fast-gathering crowd.

A second hose was fastened to a hydrant connection. A minute later, water poured from it onto the side of the near-by building in a precautionary wetting.

Beside Stan, Buck Anders said, “Another piece of fool luck, if you ask me! I’m beginning to think some kids are startin’ these bonfires to see the fun. Who else would fire a waste pile fifty yards from the mill?”

Buck’s question struck Stan with the impact of an icy shower, straightening pieces of a diabolical puzzle neatly into line. Fifty feet away, the helmeted figure of Phil Cox was directing the heavy brass nozzle of the hose.

“Phil!” Stan yelled. “Phil Cox!”

Stan started to run. He had taken less than six steps when he knew he had blundered, been unforgivably dense, waited irretrievably too long. Gouging through the sputtering crackle of the burning brush, he heard the spat of a gun from the swamp behind him.

The nozzle wavered in Phil Cox’s hands. The hose writhed, turning the powerful stream of water away from the fire and toward the sky. Slowly, as though ineffably tired, Cox wilted to the ground.

Stan turned and headed for the swamp without breaking his stride. Blackness sucked him in. He tore with desperation at impeding bushes which clung to him ruthlessly, checking his way. Blackthorns ripped at his hands and, with an oath, he tore himself free.

The flickering, deceitful light from the pyre brought black shadows of vegetation to life, scattering them in a living army through the swamp until the morass was peopled with a malign hoard of enemies all working for his destruction.

He found freedom from the brush, but water splashed high on his knees. Bushes moved ahead and a gun spat again, sending a whining slug of destruction close by his ear. It tore bark from a cypress and started a hollow, bounding echo on its way. Sobbing in his throat, Stan started in pursuit again, but the wraithlike noise he was chasing was farther away. Twigs crackled more faintly.

A moment later, the confines of the swamp were still. When bruised and torn he burst from the swamp onto the corduroy road, he faced the calmly smoking figure of Charles Wentworth seated on the running-board of his red sedan.

“Did you see anyone come out of here?” Stan gasped demandingly.

Mr. Wentworth looked him over with surprise, slowly sharpened the crease of his well pressed trousers between thumb and finger, and said, “No, buddy, not a soul.”

Wearily Stan hobbled down the road toward the scene of the fire. Silently he pushed through the ominously muttering crowd until headlights glinted on Chief Blunt’s brass buttons and blue.

The Chief looked at Stan’s scratched face and ripped-up clothes and said, “What the hell?”

Stan drew him free of the crowd, pointed to Phil Cox’s motionless form and said, “Dead?”

Blunt nodded morosely.

“I blame myself for that,” said Stan with expressive calmness. “I’m a chuckle-headed fool!”

“Why?” The Chief gave a friendly touch to Stan’s arm.

“Why?” Stan repeated bitterly. “Because the real reason why these fires were started just penetrated my thick head a few minutes ago. A child could see these aren’t arson, Blunt.”

“Then what are they?”

“Murder traps!” said Stan. “Set to get a man who answered every alarm in Palatka because he was a member of the Fire Department — Phil Cox!”

“There’ve been four.”

“That’s what threw me off. Something must have gone wrong for the killer at the first two. Something went desperately wrong at the third, for Wallace Trimmer, handling the sucker, was mistaken for Phil silhouetted against the glare.”

“But fires, Stan—” The Chief breathed deeply and paused.

“The best cover-up for a shooting I ever heard of. Crowds, excitement, and plenty of noise. Tonight you saw it work without a flaw.” His mouth set grimly and he turned away.

“Where are you going?” asked Blunt.

“Dancing,” said Stan. “Dancing at the River Inn.”

Driving across the St. John’s River bridge toward River Inn, Stan stole a glance at Lois. She seemed content to sit beside him and watch the twin row of lights rushing to meet them. Not until they ran off onto the brick road and swung left toward East Palatka did she speak. Then it was only to say, “You’re quiet. Is something the matter?”

Stan slowed down and lighted a cigarette from the dash lighter. “I guess I’m upset. There was another fire tonight, you know.”

She took the cigarette from between his lips, inhaled, and passed it back to him. “You can’t very well miss knowing when there’s a fire in Palatka.”