“I see.” Longarm squatted on his heels. “But you did find the remains of Mrs. Smith and the boy.”
“That’s right. And we found evidence that a fire had been set. This wasn’t any accident.”
“What evidence did you find?”
“One of the investigators found an empty can that he said the arsonists used to hold kerosene. He showed it to me and said he could definitely identify the smell of kerosene, but I couldn’t. Can you?”
“No,” Longarm answered, “but I never did have an especially good sense of smell.”
“Well,” the policeman said, “this Detective Clark claims he does have an excellent sense of smell. And he showed us how the fire started in the back of the house and then flowed up the walls, across the ceiling, and into the second story.”
“I see.”
“They can tell a lot about a fire,” the policeman said, wiping his sooty brow. “It was real interesting how he pointed it all out to us.”
“So there’s no doubt that it was arson resulting in at least two murders.”
“Exactly. And that’s why I’m still here digging and poking around. I can tell you this much, Marshal. Whoever lit the fire was one deranged sonofabitch.”
“Yeah, he’d have to be.”
The sergeant shook his head. “I don’t suppose you heard that the woman and her son had also been stabbed.”
“No!”
“They were. Both of ‘em must have been murdered before the fire was set. The coroner found the blade marks on their rib cages and chest bones. It seems pretty likely that the fire was set just to wipe out the evidence of at least a double murder. Pretty cold-blooded, huh?”
Without answering, Longarm turned and began to walk very fast down Sixth Avenue, heading over to Tenth in order to reach Judge Getty as quickly as possible.
The judge lived in an impressive two-storied Victorian mansion a few blocks east of town near Washington Park. When Longarm bounded up onto the man’s front porch, there was no sign that anyone was home. Longarm pounded hard on the massive door made of oak and adorned with squares of clear and stained glass.
“Judge Getty! Judge! It’s United States Deputy Marshal Custis Long! Open up, please.”
A middle-aged woman appeared at the door. She peered through one of the little glass panes and said, “Show me identification, please.”
Longarm produced his badge and held it up for her inspection. Satisfied, she opened the door and smiled graciously. She was very attractive. Formally dressed and wearing a magnificent pearl necklace and earrings, she had soft, probing blue eyes, a slender figure, and a complexion that seemed to have never known, even for one hour, the direct ravages of the sun. “Excuse me for asking for your identification,” she said. “Franklin has made a few enemies in his time. He just opens the door for anyone, but I’m a lot more suspicious.”
“You’re doing the right thing,” Longarm assured the elegant woman. “Are you Mrs. Getty?”
“No, she died eleven years ago. I’m Franklin’s sister-in-law, Lavinia. What can we do for you today, Marshal?”
“I’d like to see Judge Getty.”
“He’s taking his customary afternoon nap. Would you care to come inside and have tea while he sleeps a little longer? Then I’ll awaken him and announce your presence.”
“All right,” Longarm said, following the woman into the parlor and taking a seat.
“Be right back,” she promised. “Do you like sugar and cream in your tea?”
“A little sugar will be fine.”
“One … or two lumps?”
“One, ma’am.”
Lavinia returned ten minutes later carrying a silver tray and teapot, spoons, and china teacups and saucers. Longarm let the woman prepare the tea, and then they sipped it quietly for a few moments before he said, “Have you lived with the judge a long time?”
“Since his wife died. He really does need someone to care for him. I’m afraid that Franklin is a trifle forgetful these days, you know.”
“I suppose that eventually it happens to the best of us,” Longarm said, wanting to appear understanding.
“You are a rather large man, aren’t you,” Lavinia said with surprising frankness. “And I’ll bet you are a real tough customer too!”
Longarm blushed a little because of the sparkle in Lavinia’s eyes and the bold way she was inspecting him. She giggled and sipped more tea before adding, “Have you been a marshal for a long time, Mr. …”
“Long,” he told her. “And yes, I have.”
“Are you here on professional business?”
“I’m afraid that I am.”
Lavinia’s smile slipped. “What is the nature of your business—if you don’t mind my asking.”
Longarm carefully weighed his response. He had no intention of telling anyone—not even Judge Getty—about The Assassin and the role that he had secretly played for Commissioner John Pinter. However, Longarm did need to
