The warden said, �I don�t think you need worry about Wilter, Marshal. Our psychiatrist thinks he�s cured.�

�You don�t cure firebugs.� Ben Pedley, chief fire marshal, ran his knuckles along the purplish welt of scar tissue which laced across his bony jaw. �You seldom cure pyros. Never a commercial torch like Wilter. No compulsive mania with him. Just the same old stuff that lands most of the boys up here in your little, stone school-house. Lure of the fast buck.�

�Oh, I agree.� The warden crackled a confidential report. �What I meant, our records indicate Ted Wilter�s learned that lesson � and a trade, in the bargain. At the time of his sentence, he�d been a drifter.�

�A bum,� Pedley corrected brusquely. �He�d tried everything from panhandling to prestidigitation before he found what he thought was a soft snap, touching off retail stores whose owners wanted to sell their stocks to the insurance companies.�

The warden nodded patiently. �Quite right. But now,� he consulted the buff card marked Parole Approved, �after four years and eight months, he�s turned out to be a pretty fair pipe-fitter. He�s been taking care of all the plumbing fixtures in the C block for some time.�

�Sounds great.� There was no enthusiasm in the fire marshal�s long, weather-leathered horseface. �Question is, how long�ll he be content to fix clogged pipes after he�s had time on the outside to think about the quick coin he used to grab off for those bonfires? But I�m not here to protest his release. I came up to give him a word of warning before he�s turned loose.�

The warden spread his palms. �We don�t like to give a man the feeling he�s going to be hounded.�

�I�m not planning to hound him,� Pedley said bleakly. �I wish I could. I don�t have enough deputies to watch all the glowworms who get out on parole so they can try out the gimmicks they�ve thought up, or dreamed up, here in the pen. If I did, he�d be the first one I�d sic a tail on; two old women died in that last job we got him for, and one of the boys at Engine Thirty-four went to the hospital for a month.�

�Assuming he�s had a change of heart,� the warden laid the release card aside, �you�ll��

�Give him the benefit of the doubt?� Pedley cut in. �I�ll do better than that. If he�s on the up and up, I�ll go to hell to help him get a job. We have a lot of contact with plumbing contractors in the department. But if he�s got it in the back of his mind to get back in the bonfire business, I�ll go to hell to stop him.�

�Yes. Naturally. Your job. I hope you�ll find he has no such intention.� The warden shook hands. �Let me know what you think, after you�ve talked to him.�

�Chances are,� the marshal was brusque, �it�ll be the same�s I think now. You do scare some of your graduates so they keep clean after they get out, in order not to have to come back. A few of �em really get religion, turn out as all-righters, none better. I�ve one working with me, so I know. But, for what it�s worth, my opinion is Ted Wilter won�t qualify under either of those classifications.�

�I understand your feeling so about him. I talked to him myself an hour ago. Difficult to get under his skin. He�s � hard, cold.�

�Unless he�s changed considerable,� Pedley said dryly, �he�s a slimy so-and-so. I hope I�m wrong, but I�m not willing to gamble on it. Where do I find him?�

�In the interview room. Just to the right of the guard-room time-clock, Marshal.�

Sleet rattled against the windows of the Municipal Building all the next afternoon, glazing the sill behind Pedley�s swivel chair in the chief�s office, silvering the trees in City Hall Park far below. In the Plaza, cars crawled with ant-like slowness over the treacherous pavement, toward the bridge.

There were worse things, he mused, than being on his old job at the rear tiller on Hook and Ladder 14 on a skiddy day like this. One of them was sweating it out until zero hour, sometime between eight-thirty when the Belfonte opened its doors, and eleven, when they rang down the final curtain on Bedtime Story.

He studied the ticket which had been delivered by Western Union messenger half an hour ago � G-18. In the middle of the tenth row. Just about the toughest seat in the theatre to get out of in a hurry, if he had to.

It wouldn�t have been Doranne, though somebody expected him to draw that conclusion; Lily Lacazett�s Love Bird Twoette was featured on the Belfonte door-boards as �The Hottest Number in Town.� But she�d have known a fire marshal wouldn�t need any ducat to get inside the theatre, S.R.O. sign or not.

The phone. His office assistant, Barney Malloy: �It�s comin� in kind of piecemeal, skipper, but maybe you put �em together, they add up.�

�Oke. Pitch.�

�Well, first, Ed picks him up when he gets off the train yesty ay-em. Wilter subways up to Seventy-second an� Broadway, ties on a few in a crumb-bum bar across the square an� lugs his bag to a broken-down roomin� house called the Rameses on Seventy-fourth near Amsterdam.�

�He knows the district. Used to live right around the corner. And��

�About noon he goes over to the precinct, checks in with his parole officer, says he has a job lined up. With Eureka Plumbing, Ventilating, and Heating Service, Forty-seventh, near Ninth.�

�He�s just the type to be monkeying around with heating devices. So��

�Ed tails him to an Army-Navy where he lays out for one of those ground-crew coveralls and a couple work shirts. Then over to Eureka. Ed loses him there. Wilter must of gone out the shipping room onto one of the trucks.� Of all the dumb deputies, Pedley thought. �What in hell�d Ed expect the guy to do? Come out tooting a trombone to draw attention to himself?�

�He does somep�n pretty near as screwy, Ed says. After he loses Wilter at Eureka, he goes back up to the Rameses, picks him up there around half-pas� six. Wilter grabs a hack, then for one solid hour he cabs around like crazy, goin� strickly nowhere. In and out. Across town. Back again. Only place he stops is that all-night drugstore on Fiftieth; he�s only in there a couple minutes so Ed don�t know what he bought.�

�Where�d he drop th� taxi?�

�Forty-second an� Broadway. Around seven-thirty. He�s down in that Times Square station so fast Ed can�t find a place to park so he loses th� cluck again. Don�t pick him up until midnight, then he puts Wilter to bed.�

�The guy would�ve had time to bonfire half the midtown section by then.� Pedley swore disgustedly.

�That�s about it. Wilter goes to work this morning, been in th� shop all day. Ed went in to get an estimate on air-conditioning his Madison Avenoo mansion, an� he met another cluck who works there. Ex-con. Charley Lerquick. Just come down from doin� three to five, breakin� an� enterin�. Prob�ly he helped Wilter latch onta th� job.�

�Yair. Barney, find out if they do much theatre work. Ventilating ducts, stuff like that.�

�It�s after six. An� I think they close at five.�

�Then get hold of the man on beat. He�ll know where to rout out the boss.

�And, Barney. Tell Ed if he misses Wilter tonight, I�ll send him back to doing housework on the brass at Engine Sixty.� Pedley hung up, went down, climbed in the red sedan.

They ran their hands along the side walls, patted the flimsy partition which separated the dressing rooms from the property man�s cubicle and the costume mistress�s rack-room. Damply warm, but no suggestive heat.

Above them, the thudding cadence of the soft shoe number paced the hit song:

Dickson muttered, �They pour on that steam, night like this, Marshal, so th� house�ll be good �n warm when th� show starts. Y� can�t have a socko smash like this, with people sittin� on their mitts.�

�Feel the floor along that side wall,� Pedley said.

�Yes, sir. Them cuties get goose-pimples any time they get th� temperature below seventy.�

�You been around while that outfit was working on the vents?� Pedley climbed a bench to stroke the ceiling plaster in the prop room.

�No, sir. Management won�t let �em work on matinee pee-ems. Hammer on those pipes down cellar, voom! You can hear it all over th� house like a bass drum.�

�Yair.� What Pedley could hear was the silent alarm of those wired escape-doors; they made a noise like fear-crazed panic. �You keep givin� em the pat. I�m going up, phone in a Stand By.�

�Jeeze.� Dickson�s eyes bulged. �You got a tipoff they�s a pyro in th� house, Marshal?�

�You keep your eyes open. And not on those babes. I�ll be back, few minutes.�

The chorus was doing precision steps to Lily Lacazette�s introduction to the Twoette when he came out into the side aisle. A rainbow of negligees swirled around long-stemmed lovelies while Doranne and Val Kreston, her leading man, crooned to a spotlighted cage of ivory-white love birds:

When he came back from the phone booth, he watched her a minute. She gets �em excited, all right, he thought. Half the guys in the audience looked as if they�d like to climb up on the stage and put the slug on that hunk of he-man who was nuzzling Doranne�s throat in the final clinch. And the dames seemed to get a belt out of her sexiness, too.

The encore was the payoff to the Twoette. When she came back to let the white parakeets out of their cage to take the bows with her, the birds went to work on the bows that held her dress, her slip, her underthings. The music quickened, mounted. The lights dimmed until the strip tease was focused in one huge amber spotlight.

Doranne pretended to fight off the pecking birds and fled to the wings in feigned embarrassment. The applause thundered. She had to beg-off after the ninth bow.

Val Kreston came on for a burlesque of the strip, the love birds stopping at loosening his bow tie. The chorus returned in Bikinis for the sun-bath number.

Pedley scanned the center bank of seats; no one resembling Wilter. He went to the balconies. No sign of the firebug there, either.

He stopped at the box-office. George wasn�t around.

�Maybe he�s backstage,� the ticket-seller suggested. �He got the house count about five minutes�� He stopped, his mouth open.

The chimes sounded off with The Gang�s All Here. Doranne answered the door herself. The French maid must be on a day basis, Pedley thought. He said, �How�s George?�

�Lying down. I made him lie down.� Doranne looked drawn; there were lines of strain around her eyes; her voice sounded listless. �He says he feels all right. But after that bang on the head and everything, he might have something wrong with him and not know. I sent for our doctor. He ought to be here any minute.�

�Sense.� Pedley nodded. �Likely has a dose of smoke narcosis; doesn�t affect you for a few hours, then whammo! You�re drowning to death inside, with your lungs full of liquid. I wouldn�t know about the concussion; how�d he get knocked out like that?�

�The smoke blinded him. He ran smack into the door, looking for me. At least, that�s all he remembers.�

He held out the wrench. �I better show him this.�

She squinted, peering at the Stillson. �What is it? Where�d it come from?�

�Plumber�s tool. It was on the floor beside your husband when I picked him up.�

�You!� Her eyes lit up. �I thought it was a fireman. I mean one of the regular firemen. Oh! You saved his life. He�d have been suffocated down in that awful hole!�

�He might have been buried under a brick landslide.�

�You�ll never know how grateful�� Doranne�s eyes misted. She turned, with her hand on the knob of the bedroom door. �That thing! Does it mean somebody tried to kill him?!�

�Doubt if anyone�d use it for putting on makeup,� he said drily.

�Ted,� she breathed. �I... I told George about him.�

�Good deal. You�d have had to, sooner or later, anyway.�

�Have you caught him?�

�Not yet.�

A spasm twisted the placid features for an instant. �It must sound terrible to say so, but � I�m glad it�s over. If it is.�

�I know what y� mean.�

�You don�t, though. Nobody could.� Doranne shuddered. �You won�t upset George too much? He�s had it rough. This�ll just about finish the show for the season, and there�ll be all sorts of lawsuits!�

�I can�t guarantee to make him feel better.�

�I suppose not. No.� She went in, ahead of him.

George lay in one of a pair of twin Holly-woods, pillows banked behind him, the purple, striped pajamas the only spot of color against the whiteness of candlewick spread, sheets and pillowslip.

Doranne clutched Pedley�s arm. �George! He dragged you up out of that awful basement!�

The treasurer scowled. �You did, Marshal?�

�Happened to get down there first, that�s all. One of the boys�d have brought you out if I hadn�t.� Pedley could see no sign of a scalp wound or bruise.

George�s scowl faded, was replaced by a growing grin. �Only trouble is, I�ll never be able to get even with you, for a thing like that, pal.� He held out his hand. �But I sure won�t forget it.�

Pedley put the wrench on the outstretched palm. �You see the party who tapped you with this?�