Mouthpiece (4 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Ready For Roasting

T
HEY
could not have
gone
far, for
the car was stopped when Detective-Sergeant Tom Delaney regained his battered
senses. He sat up and found that a pistol muzzle was prodding him in the side.

“Git along, little
cop,” said Soapy Jackson. “Walk up those steps and don't look back. We'll be
right behind you.”

Staggering slightly, Delaney
climbed down from the car, discovering that his hands were tied behind his
back. His topcoat was dusty and his hat had been lost, allowing his dark hair
to cascade down over his face. He shook it out of his eyes and went up the
steps, feeling helpless and weak.

“Y'don't like to be
sapped
, hey?” said Connely. “Serves you right,
flatfoot
.”

Soapy Jackson kicked
open a door and for the first time Delaney took account of his surroundings.
This house was neither old nor shabby. It was bounded by a beautiful landscaped
yard which showed care even in the dim light of evening. The knocker on the
door was brightly polished. But, evidently, there were no occupants, for
Jackson stamped through the halls as though he owned the entire building.

Standing beside the
door he had thrown open, Connely pointed into a dark closet.

“This is good enough,”
he said. “Throw him in.”

Delaney was knocked
off balance by a shove against his shoulder. Head first, unable to catch
himself, he pitched into the cramped interior. Jackson kicked his legs out of
the doorway.

“Listen, 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.”

“If 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 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.

“Delaney! 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.

“Thanks, Terrill,”
said Delaney, moving his sore mouth as little as possible. “Did you turn in an
alarm?”

“Sure I did, but I
haven't seen nothin' of the outfit yet.”

“Probably 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.

“I'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.

“Delaney! What on
earth have you been into? You look like a cinder.”

“I feel like one,”
said the detective. “I lost my gun. Got one handy?”

“You'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.”

“I'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?”

“Dunno,” 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.

“What'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.

“
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.

“I 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 gun belched flame a second time
before Delaney's bullet sent him thudding back against the wall. Jackson stood
shaking, glancing to left and right, looking for an out.

The detective's hand was suddenly shadowed by a revolver.
“I want you two birds,” he snapped.

And then Delaney's
singed, calm face came up through a ring of powder smoke.

“I usually mean what I
say,” he rapped. “Walk right ahead of me, quick, and never mind those coats.
You won't need 'em where you're going.”

Jackson and Connely
walked stiffly, the latter holding his shoulder and moaning. The bartender
tried to catch Delaney's attention and apologize, but the detective walked out
through the doors unheeding.

At the car, the
detective removed an oddly limp blackjack from Jackson, pulled two pairs of
handcuffs out of the side pocket and snapped them on docilely offered wrists.

“Listen,” whined
Jackson. “Can't we talk business on this thing?”

“No. Get in.”

The two slumped into
the seat, looking helplessly about, shivering slightly as the night breeze cut
through their shirt sleeves. While Delaney was starting the car, Jackson spoke
again.

“Listen. I got ten
grand in a safe-deposit box—”

“Shut up!” rasped
Connely. “He'll get us for bribery! Ain't you got any sense?”

Delaney drove the car
for several blocks before the two noticed that they weren't heading for the
police station.

“Listen,” said
Connely, “I gotta get this shoulder fixed. I'll bleed to death.”

“Go ahead,” Delaney
snapped. “It'll save the state the price of electricity.”

“Aw, have a heart,
copper. We didn't mean no harm.” Connely stopped long enough to emit a
heart-rending moan.

“I'm going to take you
birds with me,” said the detective. “I've got a little research to do, and
after that we'll go back to the station house and try out the
rubber hose
on
you. I've got an idea that it'll work.”

Jackson grunted
dolefully.

“You don't have to do
that, copper. We'll spill right now if you want us to.”

“Go ahead.”

“If we turn state's
evidence, will you let us off?” demanded Connely, miraculously reviving.

“I'm not promising you
birds anything. I don't have to have your dope. I've got just about all I need
right now. The big boy talked plenty fast.”

“You mean—” began
Jackson.

“Shut up,” hissed
Connely. “He's baiting us.”

Jackson's mouth took
on a traplike aspect. Jammed as he was between the wounded Connely and the
unmoved Delaney, he cautiously tried to find out how close he could come to
wrecking the car. But Delaney's hands were steel clamps on the
spokes
.

“Scared, aren't you?”
said Delaney evenly. “All I can say is, you'll be a whole lot more scared in a
couple hours.”

Ahead, the gutted
ruins of Tyler's Department Store loomed. Several
bluecoats
were posted there
now, keeping out any possible looters who might try to get away with charred
valuables. Smoke still hung about the structure like a dreary cloak.

The detective drew up
to the curb and called to an officer to keep an eye on the two occupants of the
roadster
. Borrowing a flashlight, he went into the building and stayed for
several minutes. Presently he came out and climbed in under the wheel.

“Need any help?”
queried the policeman.

“No, thanks,” said
Delaney. “You got any idea where I can find Blaze Delaney?”

“Huh! He's all over
the city tonight. I heard there were sixteen fires going at the same time.” The
officer stepped back and thought for a moment. “I can call the fire department
for you.”

“Go ahead,” said
Delaney.

In a few seconds, the
policeman was back. “He's working at Sixteenth and Bushman, according to the
latest. It was seventeen fires instead of sixteen. I hear they're going to
throw old man Delaney out on his ear. That right?”

The detective shook
his head.

“Just rumor. My dad's
in there to stay.”

“Glad to hear it.” The
policeman smiled after the accelerating machine.

The passage between
Tyler's and Sixteenth and Bushman streets was made in record time, with the
squad car chortling like a mad
banshee
. Ahead the sky was growing redder and
smokier, until Delaney could smell the fire itself. It was not hard to smell
smoke on this night. Spots in the overcast heavens hung like red ulcers above
the town.

At the edge of the
fire lines, Delaney spotted the red coupe and drove in as close as he could.
Two policemen were vainly striving to keep the street clear for the
smoke-eaters
.

“Dobson!” shouted
Delaney, and waited until Officer Dobson came. “Look after these two mugs, will
you? I've got some business. Where's Blaze Delaney?”

Dobson gestured with
his thumb and leaned against the running board, thankful for a chance to rest.

The detective was not
long in spotting the chief of the fire department. Blaze Delaney stood with his
feet wide apart, bullying tired firemen to greater effort and directing the
hard campaign against this particular two-story structure. He saw his son and
his reddened eyes asked a vital question.

“Not yet,” said the
detective. “Keep right on. You're pretty close to fighting your last fire
tonight.” He smiled and cast about, attempting to recognize another individual.
Finally he spotted Blackford and went up to him.

The investigator was
standing on the outskirts of the fighters, looking on, a little bored. When he
saw the detective he blinked and his thin face twitched.

“Hello,” he greeted.
“Glad to see you got out of it all right.” He pointed to a bandage around his
forehead. “They didn't take me with them.”