within... 60 days... at the premises occupied by... the Grolier Operating Corporation (leased) by you, said premises being considered dangerous to life and property and in its present condition a violation of law.
Having failed to cause the ordered reequipping to be done within the... 60 day... period, I am required by law to notify you that the said premises are hereby ordered to be... vacated.
“That notice was signed by John M. Bresnahan, Deputy Fire Commissioner, City of New York.”
Broodman laced and unlaced his fingers wretchedly but said nothing.
“Three days after you received that notice, your lawyers obtained a two-week stay of ejection from Judge Potter. In your application for this deferral, you promised to cease operating this building as a hotel within ten days; you pleaded inability to get labor and materials with which to make the required alterations to date.”
The manager sweat it out in silence.
“A couple of days ago you attempted to obtain an additional policy of fire insurance to the tune of forty thousand dollars—”
“To cover the improvements on the property,” the hotel man interrupted.
“The companies turned you down. After checking with us. Anyhow, failing to get your additional coverage, today you began to give your employees their week’s notice. And tonight you have a fire.”
“Nobody can feel worse about this than I do.” Broodman combed his hair nervously with his fingers.
“A hell of a lot of people feel a hell of a lot worse!”
“The corporation won’t attempt to deny its responsibility.”
“You won’t, either.”
“You’re not suggesting—?”
“I’m making a flat statement, Broodman. This blaze was incendiary. You... and your other stockholders... are the only persons who could profit from it.”
The manager’s tan became a muddy gray. “As far as profit is concerned, every cent I have was in this hotel. The insurance won’t cover sixty percent of the loss. I’m wiped out... even if the corporation wasn’t liable for damage suits. Don’t talk to me about profiting from a ghastly business like arson. I’ll sue you for defamation of...”
“After I get through with you, you won’t have any character that could be defamed, mister. The fire started in Mrs. Munson’s room. You were up in her room tonight. She was liquored up. You supplied the liquor. You were in a jam with her. Now she’s going to die; you think you’re out of that jam. Well, you’re in another and it’s a lot worse. They electrocute people for first degree arson in this state, in case you didn’t know.”
Broodman scowled. “You sure the fire started in Doris’ room?”
“I can make it stand up in court.”
The manager sat down suddenly in the straight-backed chair, buried his face in his hands. After a minute he groaned:
“I guess you’re right, saying I’m responsible. But not for arson. Only because of Doris.”
“Trying to say the girl deliberately burned herself.”
“That’s what she would do, Marshal — what she must have done. She threatened as much, though she didn’t say anything about... setting a fire.”
“When was this?”
“Tonight. Half-past eleven or so. We’d been threshing the thing out — apparently you know about it...?”
“Only what I got out of Harris and Wayner.”
“Well... I told her I had to shut the place up... was going south to run a hotel there. It would take a while for me to get a divorce and so on. She wanted to know how she was going to live in the meantime. Couldn’t she go with me and so on. Finally I got sore. Told her if she wasn’t satisfied to play it my way, we’d call the whole thing off.”
“And then...?”
“She bawled and got hysterical, the whole damn rigamarole women put on. But I’d had enough of it by then — I suppose worrying about the shutdown made me kind of jumpy — and I told her we were all washed up. Finally she said she’d kill herself; she’d make me sorry for treating her that way if it was the last thing she ever did.” Broodman chewed at his lower lip. “That’s the kind of break I get — for her to be so badly burned she can’t tell you the truth of it. You could ask her...”
“I will,” Pedley said. “She might come to and talk a little before she signs off.”
Broodman shivered.
There were more reporters than firemen in the lobby when the Marshal left the office; more photographers than internes, in the street. The crowd had thinned; the fire lines were permitting traffic on the opposite sidewalk. Pedley spoke to a haggard man in a white helmet:
“How about Maxie?”
“Died on the way over, Ben.” The Battalion Chief spat. “Rest his soul. He was a good man.”
“He was.” Pedley nodded, walked to the red sedan. Maxie Rhine had been in the old Engine Eleven Company with him when they were probationers. They had rolled to many a bad blaze together; once Maxie had waded through the acid-loaded water of a drug warehouse cellar to drag Pedley out from under the I-beam that had pinned him. Now Maxie had taken a gust of flame from a back draft up on the tenth floor of this firetrap and they’d be sounding the four 5’s for him in the morning. And there were three other wearers of the Maltese Cross who’d never answer the gong again, though Pedley hadn’t known them as well as he had Maxie. There’d be those who’d miss every one of them...
At the hospital the doctor confirmed what Pedley had learned on the phone. Doris Munson had been seriously burned about the breast and throat; was suffering from shock and smoke inhalation; barring pneumonia setting in, she’d recover. The matron said it was all right for the Marshal to talk to her, long’s he didn’t excite her. He said he’d try not to.
The girl on the cot in Ward C couldn’t have been identified as a blonde; there wasn’t enough of her hair left. She looked up at Pedley out of bandages swathing her like a mummy.
“First thing I remember,” she mumbled, “was someone at the window yelling ‘Water!’ ”
“Had you been smoking in bed?”
A negative shake of the head.
“Were you feeling pretty good — you know — hit the cork quite a bit — before you turned in?”
Another negative. “I only had three little drinks,” she added with an effort. “I was feeling terrible. I’d just found out something that would have sobered me, if I’d drunk a gallon.”
He told her what Broodman had said. “Is that true?”
Doris nodded, her eyes widening with horror. “Oh! Arnie thinks I... started the fire!”
“You could have.”
She struggled to sit up. He put a hand on her forehead, forced her back on the pillow.
“Maybe I did!” she whispered. “If I did, I hope I don’t live. I couldn’t bear to know I’d... caused all that!”
“Take a sleeping pill to get you to sleep?” He knew there must have been something to make her doubt her own actions.
“I took... six.”
“Yeah.” Not enough to kill her. Enough to scare Broodman if he’d learned about it. “You wash your face before you went to bed?”
“What?”
“Wash your face? Or use cleansing cream?”
“No.” she was puzzled. “Why...?”
The nurse came in. “Phone for you, Marshal.”
He took it out in the corridor.
“Ed, Skipper. I been keeping an eye on Wayner, like you suggested.”
“So...”
“He didn’t head for the hospital at all.”
“Know he didn’t. Where is he?”
“Seven fifty West Twenty-eighth. Rooming house. No savvy if he lives here or not. Name isn’t on the mail box. That don’t necessarily mean anything at a fleabag like this.”
“Where you calling from?”