granted his questioning of Jernigan tonight had not been discreet; indeed it had been a serious mistake-that she had a teacher’s pension and a small inheritance. The amount of money that Lisolette would be willing to “invest” would probably be small, but he had no intentions of pushing it, of leaving her destitute or even badly inconvenienced.
That was one of the rules of the game: You never sheared the sheep so close it hurt. They seldom went to the police then, but he liked to think there was a touch of altruism to it as well.
He carefully knotted the blue paisley tie and he inserted the tie tac, looking in the mirror as he centered the latter.
He carefully shot his cuffs so the proper fraction of an inch was exposed, then stopped. Smoke. For a, moment he thought it was the butt of his earlier cigarette which he had failed to scrub completely out, then realized the odor was of burning cloth. He carefully inspected the rug on the floor, locking the nap this way and that, then thought, panic-stricken, that it might be coming from his other suit, the brown one. He ran to the closet, pulling the suit off the hanger and spreading it out on the bed for a quick inspection. Nothing. He returned to the closet where he had stomped out the coal earlier, searching through the slight whorls of dust and hair on the floor.
Then he spotted the faint haze of smoke. A spark from his cigarette had lodged in the seat of one of his good pair of slacks and smoldered to the point where there was a charred spot the size of a dime in the top of the inseam.
He pinched the fire out, momentarily feeling both disgusted and depressed. They were his best trousers, expensive double knits that he had purchased only a year before. He might,be able to mend them but he doubted it. That was the trouble with knits; it cost a lot to have them rewoven and, in any event, he had little enough money remaining as it was.
Well, there was no helping it now. No matter how fond he was of Lisolette, the burn in the trousers had underscored the fact that he was broke and tonight he would have to score. Perhaps, if she didn’t go for stocks, he could manage a small personal loan. “My dear, I’m terribly embarrassed but my financial man hasn’t forwarded my monthly check and … Lisolette would undoubtedly be softhearted enough to sit still for a loan.
All of his ladies had been very generous.
CHAPTER 17
The fire races over the surface of the charring fabric and digs deeply into the cotton batting underneath. Burning lintels fall to the tiled floor. Flames burrow beneath the mats, charring the interiors. The air above the mats shimmers as smoke and heat rise from the flames.
The temperature of the metal shelving over the mats climbs -first a mere ten degrees, then another ten, climbing until the battleship green of the underside of the shelf turns olive, then dark brown. Bubbles of gas form under the paint, pushing it out in glowing blisters that char even as they grow.
The paint is leprous now, bubbling outward, charring and flaking away to fall on the mats below.
On the shelf itself, a metal can suddenly pops its seams as its flat sides distend in the heat. The liquid squirts out from the vapor pressure inside. Nearby, the paper label of a gallon jug, half filled with a murky opalescent liquid, begins to brown. Glue flakes away from the underside of the label and falls in brittle fragments as the label curls off the side of the bottle. The curling label chars, blackens, and abruptly dissolves in sparks. The next instant the bottle cracks apart like a shattered egg and liquid gushes from its interior onto the shelf, running along the retaining edge that acts as a dam. Then the liquid reaches the end of the shelf and thin streams spatter down on the matting below, almost extinguishing part of the fire before the liquid itself vaporizes. There is a brief pause as the flammable vapors spill down over The matting, then a small whooshing sound as the liquid blazes up.
In the machinery room near the top of the Glass House, several panels light up with red strips and there is the siren of the smoke sensors. There is no one on duty to hear. In the basement, Griff Edwards curses his age and weakening kidneys and the blackness of his coffee and goes to the washroom down the hall. When he finishes, he hesitates a moment then climbs to the lobby in hopes that the bulldog edition of the morning paper is now out; the crossword puzzle helps pass away the long hours of the night watch.
The stream of diners to the Promenade Room has lessened for the moment and he stops to talk to Sue. She is a pretty girl with personal problems and Griff is a sympathetic listener; she has little to fear from him and he is flattered by her confidences. In the basement, the heat panels light up a brilliant red and the smoke sensors whine for attention. The direct connection to the Fire Department has buzzed briefly. Then a faulty solder connection has parted and the signal has died.
The trouble light on the panel has been inoperative for a week without detection. The man on monitoring duty who had glanced up at the first signal has gone back to jotting down figures from an endless row of meters, the momentary signal forgotten.
In the room, the beast grasps at the thin streams of liquid and climbs them like a boy going hand over hand up a rope. The pool of liquid on the shelf ignites with a small roar of triumph. Other metal cans make loud banging sounds as their contents overheat and the cans themselves explode. Two more bottles shatter and liquid cascades down over the flaming mats below.
The surface of the shelf is completely aflame now and metal cans are rupturing in a deadly sequence. The shattering of gallon and quart containers sounds like corn being popped for a birthday party. Which, of course, it is.
The beast is now three hours old.
CHAPTER 18
The trip in the scenic elevator had been spectacular and even frightening and Lisolette had not been shy in clinging to Harlee most of the way up. As they stepped into the foyer of the Promenade Room, she couldn’t resist saying, “As many times as I’ve had lunch here, I’ve never come up this way. It’s like my cousin in New York who’s never been to the top of the Empire State Building- ” Claiborne was flattered, as he suspected Lisolette meant him to be. He offered his arm and Lisolette took it firmly, allowing him to guide her toward the reservation desk. “My dear, you can’t imagine what a pleasure it is to have such a charming dinner companion to show off.”
“Many compliments like that and you’ll Turn my head, even at my age, Harlee.”
“I would consider myself lucky if I could.” He paused before the desk and waited for Quinn Reynolds, the hostess, to return. “Odd,” he said, “I’ve always wondered why they didn’t have a maitre d’ up here.”
“It’s the luncheon trade, Harlee-the clientele is mostly women who have come to do their shopping down below. I imagine they feel more at ease with a hostess and waitresses.” She looked through the windows of the dining room to the thick clouds outside. “Thank goodness, we don’t have to go out to dine on a night like tonight.”
Quinn Reynolds approached from the dining floor and Claiborne smiled at her somewhat warily. “Good evening, Miss Reynolds, reservations for two?”
For a moment Quinn seemed to hesitate and Claiborne felt his stomach start to knot. She knew, he thought.
Quinn glanced down at her reservation list and then up, at Lisolette, who was still holding tightly to Claiborne’s arm, glowing with pleasure at the prospects of the evening ahead. “Of course, Mr. Claiborne.” She broke into a smile. “It’s good to see you again, Miss Mueller. Won’t.”
you come this way?” She picked up two black-edged menus and led them down the steps to the dining floor and a far table near one of the windows. Claiborne helped Lisolette out of her coat, which Quinn-took, then held her chair while she seated herself and draped the huge, white bird of a napkin carefully on her lap.
Before Claiborne had a chance to sit down, Quinn said easily, “I wonder if I might see you a moment, Mr. Claiborne? We’ll have to make a substitution on the wine you asked to have chilled and my only available list at the moment is at the desk.”
Claiborne shrugged. “Of course.” He knew perfectly well what she wanted. He made apologies to Lisolette, and followed Quinn back to her desk.
“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Claiborne,” Quinn said quietly, once out of range of Lisolette’s hearing. “I know this is embarrassing but your bill here is now almost two hundred dollars. Accounting has notified me not to accept your signature until that has been settled.” She was uncomfortable in telling him, Claiborne could ten, but
