A. SPARK.
"Well, sir, when I got that letter," cried McCormick, "I was almost ready to ring in a double-nine alarm at once - they have me that bluffed out. But I said to myself, 'There's only one thing to do - see this man Kennedy.' So here I am. You see what I am driving at? I believe that firebug is an artist at the thing, does it for the mere fun of it and the ready money in it. But more than that, there must be some one back of him. Who is the man higher up - we must catch him. See?"
"A big department-store," mused Kennedy.
"That's definite - there are only a score or so of them, and the
Stacey interests control several. Mac, I'll tell you what I'll do.
Let me sit up with you to-night at headquarters until we get an
alarm. By George, I'll see this case through to a finish!
The fire marshal leaped to his feet and bounded over to where Kennedy was seated. With one hand on Craig's shoulder and the other grasping Craig's hand, he started to speak, but his voice choked.
"Thanks," he blurted out huskily at last. "My reputation in the department is at stake, my promotion, my position itself, my - my family - er - er - "
"Not a word, sir," said Kennedy, his features working sympathetically. "To-night at eight I will go on watch with you. By the way, leave me those A. Spark notes."
McCormick had so far regained his composure as to say a hearty farewell. He left the room as if ten years had been lifted off his shoulders. A moment later he stuck his head in the door again. "I'll have one of the Department machines call for you, gentlemen," he said.
After the marshal had gone, we sat for several minutes in silence. Kennedy was reading and rereading the notes, scowling to himself as if they presented a particularly perplexing problem. I said nothing, though my mind was teeming with speculations. At length he placed the notes very decisively on the table and snapped out the remark,
"Yes, it must be so."
"What?" I queried, still drumming away at my typewriter, copying the list of incendiary fires against the moment when the case should be complete and the story released for publication, as it were.
"This note," he explained, picking up the first one and speaking slowly, "was written by a woman."
I swung around in my chair quickly. "Get out!" I exclaimed sceptically. "No woman ever used such phrases.
"I didn't say composed by a woman - I said written by a woman," he replied.
"Oh," I said, rather chagrined.
"It is possible to determine sex from handwriting in perhaps eighty cases out of a hundred," Kennedy went on, enjoying my discomfiture. "Once I examined several hundred specimens of writing to decide that point to my satisfaction. Just to test my conclusions I submitted the specimens to two professional graphologists. I found that our results were slightly different, but I averaged the thing up to four cases out of five correct. The so-called sex signs are found to be largely influenced by the amount of writing done, by age, and to a certain extent by practice and professional requirements, as in the conventional writing of teachers and the rapid hand of bookkeepers. Now in this case the person who wrote the first note was only an indifferent writer. Therefore the sex signs are pretty likely to be accurate. Yes, I'm ready to go on the stand and swear that this note was written by a woman and the second by a man."
"Then there's a woman in the case, and she wrote the first note for the firebug - is that what you mean?" I asked.
"Exactly. There nearly always is a woman in the case, somehow or other. This woman is closely connected with the firebug. As for the firebug, whoever it may be, he performs his crimes with cold premeditation and, as De Quincey said, in a spirit of pure artistry. The lust of fire propels him, and he uses his art to secure wealth. The man may be a tool in the hands of others, however. It's unsafe to generalise on the meagre facts we now have. Oh, well, there is nothing we can do just yet. Let's take a walk, get an early dinner, and be back here before the automobile arrives."
Not a word more did Kennedy say about the case during our stroll or even on the way downtown to fire headquarters.
We found McCormick anxiously waiting for us. High up in the sandstone tower at headquarters, we sat with him in the maze of delicate machinery with which the fire game is played in New York. In great glass cases were glistening brass and nickel machines with discs and levers and bells, tickers, sheets of paper, and annunciators without number. This was the fire-alarm telegraph, the "roulette-wheel of the fire demon," as some one has aptly called it.
"All the alarms for fire from all the boroughs, both from the regular alarm-boxes and the auxiliary systems, come here first over the network of three thousand miles or more of wire nerves that stretch out through the city," McCormick was explaining to us.
A buzzer hissed.
"Here's an alarm now," he exclaimed, all attention.
"Three," "six," "seven," the numbers appeared on the annunciator.
The clerks in the office moved as if they were part of the mechanism.
Twice the alarm was repeated, being sent out all over the city.
McCormick relapsed from his air of attention.
"That alarm was not in the shopping district," he explained, much relieved. "Now the fire-houses in the particular district where that fire is=20have received the alarm instantly. Four engines, two hook-and-ladders, a water-tower, the battalion chief, and a deputy are hurrying to that fire. Hello, here comes another."
Again the buzzer sounded. "One," "four," "five" showed in the annunciator.
Even before the clerks could respond, McCormick had dragged us to the door. In another instant we were wildly speeding uptown, the bell on the front of the automobile clanging like a fire-engine, the siren horn going continuously, the engine of the machine throbbing with energy until the water boiled in the radiator.
"Let her out, Frank," called McCormick to his chauffeur, as we rounded into a broad and now almost deserted thoroughfare.
Like a red streak in the night we flew up that avenue, turned into Fourteenth Street on two wheels, and at last were on Sixth Avenue. With a jerk and a skid we stopped. There were the engines, the hose-carts, the hook-and-ladders, the salvage corps, the police establishing fire lines-everything. But where was the fire?
The crowd indicated where it ought to be - it was Stacey's. Firemen and policemen were entering the huge building. McCormick shouldered in after them, and we followed.
"Who turned in the alarm?" he asked as we mounted the stairs with the others.
"I did," replied a night watchman on the third landing. "Saw a light in the office on the third floor back - something blazing. But it seems to be out now."
We had at last come to the office. It was dark and deserted, yet with the lanterns we could see the floor of the largest room littered with torn books and ledgers.
Kennedy caught his foot in something. It was a loose wire on the floor. He followed it. It led to an electric-light socket, where it was attached.
"Can't you turn on the lights?" shouted McCormick to the watchman.
"Not here. They're turned on from downstairs, and they're off for the night. I'll go down if you want me to and -"
"No," roared Kennedy. "Stay where you are until I follow the wire to the other end."
At last we came to a little office partitioned off from the main room. Kennedy carefully opened the door. One whiff of the air from it was sufficient. He banged the door shut again.
"Stand back with those lanterns, boys," he ordered.
I sniffed, expecting to smell illuminating-gas. Instead, a peculiar, sweetish odour pervaded the air. For a moment it made me think of a hospital operating-room.
"Ether," exclaimed Kennedy. "Stand back farther with those lights and hold them up from the floor."
For a moment he seemed to hesitate as if at loss what to do next. Should he open the door and let this highly inflammable gas out or should he wait patiently until the natural ventilation of the little office had dispelled it?
While he was debating he happened to glance out of the window and catch sight of a drug-store across the street.
"Walter," he said to me, "hurry across there and get all the saltpeter and sulphur the man has in the shop.
I lost no time in doing so. Kennedy dumped the two chemicals into a pan in the middle of the main office, about three-fifths saltpeter and two-fifths sulphur, I should say. Then he lighted it. The mass burned with a bright flame but without explosion. We could smell the suffocating fumes from it, and we retreated. For a moment or two we watched it curiously at a distance.
"That's very good extinguishing-powder," explained Craig as we sniffed at the odour. "It yields a large amount of carbon dioxide and sulphur dioxide. Now - before it gets any worse - I guess it's safe to open the door and let the ether out. You see this is as good a way as any to render safe a room full of inflammable vapour. Come, we'll wait outside the main office for a few minutes until the gases mix.
It seemed hours before Kennedy deemed it safe to enter the office again with a light. When we did so, we made a rush for the little cubby-hole of an office at the other end. On the floor was a little can of ether, evaporated of course, and beside it a small apparatus apparently used for producing electric sparks.
"So, that's how he does it," mused Kennedy, fingering the can contemplatively. "He lets the ether evaporate in a room for a while and then causes an explosion from a safe distance with this little electric spark. There's where your wire comes in, McCormick. Say, my man, you can switch on the lights from downstairs, now."
As we waited for the watchman to turn on the lights I exclaimed,
"He failed this time because the electricity was shut off."
Precisely, Walter," assented Kennedy.
"But the flames which the night watchman saw, what of them?" put in
McCormick, considerably mystified. "He must have seen something."
Just then the lights winked up.
"Oh, that was before the fellow tried to touch off the ether vapour," explained Kennedy. "He had to make sure of his work of destruction first - and, judging by the charred papers about, he did it well. See, he tore leaves from the ledgers and lighted them on the floor. There was an object in all that. What was it? Hello! Look at this mass of charred paper in the corner."
He bent down and examined it carefully. "Memoranda of some kind, I guess. I'll save this burnt paper and look it over later. Don't disturb it. I'll take it away myself."
Search as we might, we could find no other trace of the firebug, and at last we left. Kennedy carried the charred paper carefully in a large hat-box.
"There'll be no more fires to-night, McCormick," he said. "But I'll watch with you every night until we get this incendiary. Meanwhile I'll see what I can decipher, if anything, in this burnt paper."
Next day McCormick dropped in to see us again. This time he had another note, a disguised scrawl which read:
Chief I'm not through. Watch me get another store yet.
I won't fall down this time.
Craig scowled as he read the note and handed it to me. "The man's