The fire was out. Forked tongues of incandescence no longer licked out from gaping windows, high above the street. Cascades of glittering sparks had died down to an occasional glowing sprinkle. The loft building was nothing more than a gutted seven-story chimney spewing up a monstrous toadstool of smoke against Broadway�s red glare. Yet now, with pumpers uncoupling and hose companies taking up, the commotion in West Thirty-eighth Street was at fever pitch.

Brassy gongs clanged the recall for hook-and-ladders. Soot-smudged men in wet rubber sloshed through gutters dragging limp serpents of canvas. Ruddy light from emergency truck headlamps turned sidewalk pools into mirrors reflecting the crowd surging at the fire lines. Still, the tall, lean-faced man kneeling on the curb paid no attention to all this roaring activity at his elbow. He squinted morosely down at the figure stretched out on the sidewalk... and his nostrils flared like those of a horse at a feared, familiar smell.

The corpse before him resembled nothing human. A fringe of silvery hair still circled one shrivelled ear. But the rest of the blackened skull was like a charred potato left too long in a camper�s fire. No one could possibly have identified the body from the cracked, charcoal mask that had been a face...

�Poor old son-of-a-gun!� The tall man laid a palm flatly on the gray fluff which was all the flames had left of the dead man�s shirt front. Slowly and steadily he pressed, watching the split and swollen lips. Presently he scowled up at the apple-cheeked individual perched beside him on the running-board of the insurance patrol. �No smoke in his lungs, Shaner.�

The other puckered up his face as if he�d tasted something bad. �Don�t necessarily signify, Marshal. One of the boys lugged him down the ladder; all the fumes could of been squeezed outa him.�

Chief Fire Marshal Ben Pedley shook his head. �Even if they�d used prone pressure to resuscitate him, there�d still be traces. This guy was cooled before he had any chance to breathe in smoke.�

The cold night air made the crisped skin of the fire�s victim contract with a curious squeak. Deputy Marshal Shaner turned away; made a retching sound. He wiped his lips with a handkerchief. �Cop on the fixed post at the corner claims Whitey had a bum ticker. Old geezer was pretty feeble to be a night watchman, anyways.�

�Hell. He wasn�t too feeble to phone in the alarm.� Pedley�s eyes held the grim bitterness of a surgeon�s witnessing an unsuccessful operation. �Or to go scouting around to locate the blaze. Boys said they found him inside that lacquer shop on the third floor. Took some strength to shove the fire-door back and get in there.�

�Prob�ly figured he could put out the fire with an extinguisher, before the apparatus got here.� Shaner glanced up at the pall of smoke against the midnight sky. �Most likely a flareup from those chemicals hit him soon�s he stuck his puss through the fire-door. Autopsy�ll show if he swallowed flame.�

Pedley pried the fingers of the corpse�s left hand away from the strap of a blackened leather case. He turned the case over, exposed the shattered dial of a watchman�s punch-clock. The hands of the timepiece had fused against the metal face. �Maybe,� the Marshal tapped the case, �when they cut Whitey open, they�ll find out how he could have telephoned the Fire Department at twelve twenty-five, when his clock went on the fritz at quarter past.�

Shaner�s mouth opened. He came over, squatted on his heels beside the body, examined the check-in clock. �Oh, oh! That makes different.�

Pedley said: �It makes something stink. In spades. See what dope you can Jig up on him. Get a couple of pix of this clock-face. And tell �em to rush through that Med-exam�s report.� He turned toward the building, collided with a paunchy individual picking his way over broken glass. The fat man tripped on a hose-coupling, would have sprawled backward against a hydrant if Pedley hadn�t grabbed him.

�Somebody�s hurt in the fire?� the stout man panted.

Pedley kept his grip on the other�s arm; shifted his position to block a view of the body. �Who wants to know?�

�I�m a tenant. Meyer Rossman. Rossman�s Beautifurs. So was somebody�?�

�How�d you hear about the fire?�

Rossman pushed a protesting hand against the Marshal�s grasp. �I�m not hearing about it. I�m only coming to my office. So I see the fire. Natural I should make a civil inquiry. Ain�t that okay?�

Pedley let him go. �Queer time to be going to your office, mister.�

�What�s queer about it? Overtime I don�t have to pay myself.� The furrier swung around to goggle at an ambulance backing in to the curb. He laid his fingers alongside his cheeks, pulling down the corners of his mouth. �That ain�t no crosstown bus. Who gets hurt?�

�Watchman.� Pedley eyed him, coldly. �Know him?�

�Whitey? Absolutely I know him.� Rossman peered around the Marshal, moaning: �Mine God! Is that thing... on the stretcher...?�

�What�s left of him. Yair.�

The fur man hunched his shoulders and slid his fingers up over his eyes. �To a cinder he�s cooked! I couldn�t look.� But Pedley noted the relief in the man�s face; the absence of concern in his voice...

The inside of the vault was an oven. The steel floor seared the Marshal�s hands and knees; the air pricked his lungs like red-hot needles. That any human could have lived through broiling heat like this was beyond belief � but the girl beneath those furs was alive. The convulsive twitching of those high heels, on the steel floor, had made that grating sound.

Pedley tried to drag her out, bodily. But, at his first tug, it felt as if the girl were glued to the floor of the vault. He�d have to pull that pile of coats off her; lift her up.

He hauled desperately at mink and beaver, seal and fox. She�d wrapped the coats around her; it had given her the one chance in a million to survive that frightful temperature. Furs were good insulators, the Marshal realized; he�d never known them to be used to keep heat out, before.

He was near collapse himself, when he finally got his arms beneath her, lifted her, crawled out. She was unconscious. That was a mercy; the agony of her burns would be unbearable. Rossman had such a wild look in his eyes that Pedley drew his gun.

Then the furrier wrung his hands. �Mary! Oh, mine God! I can�t stand looking� Suddenly he fainted, pitched sideways against the file and slid to the floor.

Pedley stumbled erect and weaved unsteadily to a window. He put away the gun, yanked the silver whistle from his vest pocket and lustily gave the three blasts.

Down on the sidewalk, by the light of a pencil flash, Shaner was scrawling in a note book. He gawked up in amazement.

�Amby! Rush it!� Pedley shouted, hoarsely. �Get a stretcher up here! Fast!�

The deputy cupped a hand, yelled: �Comin� right up.� He ran toward the emergency truck.

Pedley ducked back into the office. There wasn�t anything he could do for Mary Fallucci. There wouldn�t even be much the doctors could do, except to dull her pain. If the Marshal could only rouse her out of her coma for an instant, perhaps he could find out why she�d burrowed there in the fur vault instead of using the fire stairs to escape, or why she hadn�t used the phone to summon help, when she first smelled smoke. But there wasn�t any way of bringing her to, short of a hypodermic.

Maybe he could do something with Rossman. There were things the fur man had to explain. Why had the storage vault been unlocked, anyway? What had the bookkeeper been doing which made it necessary for her to keep the vault open?

The Marshal sopped his handkerchief in a pool of water beneath the window sill. He laid the wet cloth over Rossman�s face and unbuttoned his collar. The furrier clawed at his throat, gasped for air, and then Shaner lumbered in with a blue-coat at the other end of a stretcher.

The deputy took one look at the girl, shielded his eyes with a hand, as if from a bright light. �God! Was she up here, all through that!�

Pedley jerked a thumb toward the vault. �Ran in there for some reason.� He stooped to lift her onto the stretcher. �Skin�s cooked right off her.�

The policeman muttered: �She hasn�t a prayer.�

�Crime to bring her to,� the Marshal agreed. �But the surge will have to hyp her up, if he can. Long enough for you to ask a couple questions, Shaner.�

The deputy gulped. �What questions?�

Pedley held up a finger: �Does she know how the fire started?�

�Yuh...�

A second finger: �Was there anyone here in the office with her tonight?�

�Oke.�

Three fingers: �Why�d she bury herself here in the vault?... Wait! She�s snapping out of it!�

But she wasn�t. The puffed lips merely mumbled in delirium:

�Lorena! Is that you?�

The Marshal grabbed the still groggy Rossman. �Who�s she calling?�

�Her sister. Rena. By us she�s the model.� The manufacturer crouched fearfully at the side of the stretcher. �Rena ain�t here, Mary.�

The swollen lips moved again, tortuously: �Don�t hurt Lorena... that�s all... I ask...� the figure writhed, was still.

Pedley studied the slack, discolored features. �Get her to the hospital, Shaner. Stick close when they give her the shot. She�ll only last a minute. You�ll have to get what you can. Anything may help.�

The stretcher-bearers vanished into the smoky gloom.

The fact that someone had finagled the records of Beautifurs didn�t help Pedley much. Grim experience had sharpened his suspicions of any fire in the millinery district after the close of the hat season, or in the clothing center at the end of each wholesale garment buying season. Alarms always doubled in those areas, at those times.

Nor did Rossman�s story of being home in Brooklyn at the time the blaze started eliminate the furrier from the arson picture. Many a business man now making little ones out of big ones had committed the mistake of hiring a professional pyro and trusting to an alibi. But if the furrier�s story about the sale of sixty thousand dollars worth of squirrel coats stood up, then there wouldn�t be any sense to his making a bonfire of property on which he couldn�t recover.

Pedley made the pudgy man precede him to the row of heat-sagged racks. The manufacturer stooped, picked up a handful of the fluffy fuzz at the base of the metal stands. He stared at it. His lips quivered and he let the feathery ash sift through his fingers.

The Marshal prodded Rossman with the flash. �What was hanging here?�

The man sniffled. �Absolutely first quality natural platinum squirrels. Prize pelts, long, silky hair. Custom made, with extra-full-cut backs. Hundred percent wool interlinings, Skinner satin besides. And such sensational style. Super-shawl collars on the full lengths. Six inch cuffs, positively...� he wagged his head, dismally.

Pedley took a cellophane envelope out of his vest pocket. He held it open with one finger, scooped up an ounce or so of the ash, put the light on it. �Squirrel? In a pig�s pazook!�

�I�m telling you!�

The Marshal sealed the envelope. �Squirrel coats might have been hanging here. But they weren�t on this rack when the fire caught �em. This,� he shook the envelope, �is bunny.�

�Rabbit!�

�Yair. Or whatever the hell fancy name you guys give �em. Dyed coney. Siberian squirrel.�

Rossman seemed dazed.

�Somebody put the snatch on your sixty grand worth of nut chasers and substituted a flock of Belgian hares.�

�You couldn�t get me to believe Mary done this to me,� the furrier breathed heavily.

�How about this sister of hers? This Rena? Could she be mixed up in it?�

Rossman�s fingers fumbled at his lips. �It ain�t possible. Rena is a dummkopf; three years now she�s been modeling for me and still she don�t hardly know a muskrat from a chinchilla. She wouldn�t know to pick good furs from cheap.�

�Know where we can find the sister?�

�Somewhere in the Village, she�s living with Mary.�

�Allez oop, then! Let�s look her up!�

They started back to the red sedan. Rossman protested: �About mine own predicament I should be bothered. But it�s nothing compared to what that poor girl suffers.�

�Rena?�

�Pfui! Should I care how Rena feels, after what she lied about me? No. It�s Mary. With her I�m dying a thousand deaths.�

�Wasting your sympathy on the wrong sister. Mary hasn�t any pain, now. That�s all over. Even if she snaps out of it for a few seconds, she�ll be so full of morphine she won�t suffer much. But the other kid � all the rest of her life she�ll remember how her sister looks and what she went through.�

The furrier rubbed the back of his neck. �About this I ain�t caring. Only three years Rena�s been on mine payroll. Twelve years Mary handles all Beautifurs confidential matters. If it ain�t for her, why would I hire her sister in the first place? Now Rena stabs me � in the back.�

�This stuff about your preparing a petition in bankruptcy. That on the level?�

The man�s face was greasy with sweat. His pale eyes bugged out with fear. �What�s good denying it?�

�Now you�re pitching, mister. Keep on pouring it in there. Get it off your chest.�

Rossman turned his face sideways, made three quick pushing-away motions with his hands.

�Off my chest I don�t need to get nothing. Facts is facts. Anybody is welcome to them. I got nothing to hide, absolutely.�

�You weren�t so anxious to tell me your business was in a bad way.�

�Is any businessman? Besides, yesterday I ain�t no more in bad shape. Not after Jack sells them squirrels to Dablin.�

�Oh! The sixty gees made you a profit on the season?�

Rossman pursed his lips. �Did I claim I got sixty thousand? A little concession you got to make, sometimes.�

Pedley snorted. �What the hell did you get?�

��Jack,� I say, �do the best you can with Dablin. He could dispose of the garments at a nice profit. You should make a good commission. Maybe I pay off a few creditors.� So he goes out. When he comes back, what�s he got? A check for thirty-four thousand five hundred. �It�s breaking my heart into bits,� I�m complaining with him, �but I got to take it.��

�I bet you were broken-hearted.�

Rossman shrugged. �Beggars couldn�t be choosing.�

�Did you deposit the check? Or cash it?�

�I couldn�t do nothing with it. After banking hours, Jack brings it.�

�Where is it?�

�Mary had it. To make deposit in the morning.� The furrier folded his hands as if in prayer. �Anyhow, it wouldn�t do me no good to try and cash it. With the garments only a pile ashes, Dick Dablin is sitting on the bank steps already to stop payment.�

Pedley slid in behind the wheel of the official car. �How about proving this gabble you�re giving me?�

�Is easy. Call up Jack Boyne.�

The Marshal kicked the starter. �I�m a guy likes to do business in person. Where�s your salesman hang out?�

�At the Hotel Goelet, he�s rooming.�

The contractor�s place of business was the ground floor of a dilapidated brick structure which had once been a garage.

�Hymie lives up over,� Rossman muttered, dejectedly. �A family he ain�t got.�

There was a rickety staircase. They used it, Indian file, with Pedley bringing up the rear. At the landing, he ordered:

�Wake him up, Rossman. No tip off, now.�

The furrier banged on the door, cried: �Hymie! Hymie! Get up and letting me in. It�s Meyer.�

There was grumbling and grunting, inside. A chain rattled, a latch clicked. In the dim light from a single hanging bulb, Lemwitz peered nearsightedly at the three men in the doorway, his eyes puffed with sleep.

�What�s medder, Meyer?� He had removed his teeth. Tufts of gray hair stood up ridiculously around his bald pate. He rubbed one bare foot against the other leg; the long underwear he wore was patched and baggy.

�It�s a fire. At mine shop, Hymie. I�m ruined, absolutely.�

The contractor held up his hands in horror.

Pedley pushed the others inside. �Climb into some clothes, Lemwitz. You won�t be going back to bed for a while.�

Boyne made a grab for the old man, seized his arm before the Marshal could prevent it.

�What�d you do with those squirrels you stole, you stinking old chiseler?�

�Stole � schmole!� Lemwitz screeched. �What you accusing me?�

Pedley caught Boyne�s wrist, put a leverage on it. �That�ll be all from you, Lone Ranger. Keep still or I�ll tap you good.�

The salesman rubbed his wrist resentfully, sat down on a kitchen chair. Rossman fluttered around like a fussy hen, clucking to Lemwitz in Yiddish.

�Rossman! Do I have to lock you up to shut you up?� The furrier subsided. Pedley gave the barely-furnished flat the once-over, lightly. There didn�t seem to be any place where a hundred fur coats could be hidden. He came back to the contractor.

�What was your truck doing over on West Thirty-eighth Street tonight, Lemwitz?�

�West Thirty-eighth?� The old man buttoned his vest with trembling fingers. �Who says it?�

�I say so, Lemwitz!� Boyne was up on his feet again.

The old man quivered with anger. �Pete drives the truck for only one order all day. Over to Dablin�s � which is by Fourteenth Street. So on West Thirty-eighth it ain�t.�

The Marshal was puzzled. �What were you delivering to Dablin?�

Lemwitz turned to a tumbler beside his bed. When he swivelled around again, teeth showed in a sly grin. �A surplus I�m selling. A lot one hundred and twenty London-dyed squirrel.�

�Rabbit.� Pedley figured the scar on his chin. �You sold those to Dablin?�

�A sacrifice, sure. Over to the next season I couldn�t carry them. He offers me forty-two hundred, two percent in sixty days, so am I foolish in the head? I deliver quick before he�s changing the mind.� His eyes glittered briefly in self-approval.

Rossman pursed his lips. �Was smart business. Only��

The Marshal picked it up: �Only if those coats were delivered to Dablin, they weren�t the ones that went up in smoke in your factory.�

At the shot, Rossman squeaked in fright, sprawled flat on the pavement. Boyne flattened himself against the front of the garage. Pedley dived into the pool of light.

He expected another shot, but none came. He raced toward the comparative gloom at the rear of the vehicle. It took his eyes a second or so to get accustomed to the difference in light. Then he could make out the whole shop; the outlines of scouring boards, driers. But there was no one there.

A cold draft swept across to the garage door. It came from an open window at the rear of the shop. Pedley approached it, cautiously; stuck his head out. He didn�t see anyone, nor did he expect to. The murderer�s getaway had been easy enough, once that screen-protected window had been opened. And there wouldn�t be any footprints on that cement alley outside.

He went back to Lemwitz. The old man lay crumpled like a heap of discarded clothes. There was a glistening hole an inch above his collar button; his shirt was drenched with crimson. He�d never known what hit him.

The bullet had been a .45. It was accurate shooting, even allowing for the fact that the victim had been so plainly spot-lighted by the truck�s headlamps. The murderer had probably planned it that way. He had broken into the garage and started the motor at a late hour when Lemwitz would be certain to feel alarmed and go down to investigate; the window had been opened in advance!

He called. �Come on in here, you fellows.�

Boyne came in hesitantly � froze at the sight of the body. Rossman poked his head timidly around the jamb. When he saw Lemwitz, he crept in and touched the corpse, nervously.

Pedley barked: �Switch�ll be by the door, there, Boyne. Snap it on.�

The salesman obeyed. The light revealed scores of furs on stretcher-frames, stacked up against the walls: broadtail, lynx, muskrat. At one side was a long rod with hangers for finished garments. There were plenty made of seal, imitation leopard, phony sable. But no squirrel coats.

If Lemwitz had substituted his low-priced rabbit coats for the high-priced squirrels at Beautifurs, he hadn�t hidden Rossman�s coats here. Unless they were still in the truck.

Pedley went around to the back of the vehicle. It was locked. He remembered the keys in the contractor�s pockets, got them. One fitted. The Marshal flung the rear doors open and climbed up. There were a dozen garment-dollies inside, but no coats in them. Nothing except something that, for a moment, Pedley mistook for a piece of chinchilla. Then he called:

�Boyne! Get up in here. Roll out that first dolly. The one backed up against the driver�s seat, there.�

The store owner made a tremendous effort to pull himself together, but his hand still shook when he finally managed to get the cigarette going. �This is terrible. Have you... any idea who��

�Somebody who knew the ropes.� Pedley stood straddlelegged, balanced on his toes. �Knew them well enough to dope out that the only way to make the switch was by getting hold, somehow, of a truckful of imitation squirrel coats. After that, it wouldn�t be so tough to knock off the driver, run the truck around to Rossman�s building and, after putting the watchman and the bookkeeper out of the picture, get the cheap lot of coats up in the elevator... and the fancy lot down to the truck.�

Dablin seemed too stupefied to reply.

�The guy who ordered the imitation coats from Lemwitz would have to be in on it.� The Marshal stepped in, swiftly; grabbed the loose fold of the store-owner�s dressing gown and yanked him up on his feet. �You probably figured that because you�d actually bought the squirrel coats, nobody could connect you with stealing them.�

�No, no, no,� Dablin cried. �You�re making a horrible mistake.�

�The error was on your side, mister � if you though you were going to get away with anything like that!�

�I didn�t�� Dablin�s teeth chattered. ��I didn�t have anything to do with the murders.�

Pedley shoved him away; shoved him hard enough to send him catapulting into Jack Boyne. The salesman threw up his arm to protect himself. His hand caught Dablin on the side of the head.

The store man struck back, ferociously. But Boyne didn�t retaliate. He held out his hands, pleadingly.

�Take it easy, Dick.�

�Keep your hands off me,� Dablin panted. �I told you I wouldn�t have anything to do with it, if there was any chance of anyone getting hurt. And now � four deaths!�

Pedley broke it up. �You�re tangled up in all of �em, Dablin. You were in on the felony; you�ll be in on the indictment.�

�All I did,� the store owner�s face puckered up as if he was about to bawl, �was to order the rabbit coats from Lemwitz, and agree to buy the squirrel coats from Jack.�

Boyne spat at him. �Don�t rat on me, you stinker! You knew what we were going to do.�

�I didn�t know there were going to be any killings, as God�s my judge.� Dablin began to tremble; the sweat broke out in a leaden sheen on his face. �I thought it was going to be done when there was no one around Rossman�s office.�

The manufacturer bit his finger-tips in anguish. �You done this! You... you... slobs!�

�Sure.� Pedley pushed Boyne down into a chair. �I said it had to be somebody who knew the ropes. Boyne could get into your office without making the bookkeeper suspicious. He could get close enough to the watchman to strangle him before Whitey could raise an alarm. And he�d know how he had to fix up a deal with Dablin to sell the coats. Otherwise, there�d have been no profit in the job.�

Boyne sneered. �Dick can spill his guts all he wants to. If he says he was in it, maybe he was. Not with me. Because I was right beside you when Hymie Lemwitz was shot. Why don�t you ask Dick where he was right about then?�

Rossman muttered: �You got right, there, Jack. Hymie you couldn�t have murdered.�

The Marshal snorted. �Don�t worry about my asking enough questions, Boyne. Rossman, get over there on the phone. Ask for the police. Give them this address and tell �em to rush the wagon.�

The manufacturer moved fearfully toward the phone. He had his hand on the receiver when a soft voice behind Pedley�s shoulder said:

�Drop it, Meyer! Or mamma�ll blow your hand off!�