PAGE 8
The Firebug
by
Kennedy said nothing, but as one of the firemen roughly but reverently covered the remains with a rubber sheet, he stooped down and withdrew from the breast of the woman a long letter-file. “Come, let us go,” he said.
Back in our apartment again we bathed our racking heads, gargled our parched throats, and washed out our bloodshot eyes, in silence. The whole adventure, though still fresh and vivid in my mind, seemed unreal, like a dream. The choking air, the hissing steam, the ghastly object under the tarpaulin – what did it all mean? Who was she? I strove to reason it out, but could find no answer.
It was nearly dawn when the door opened and McCormick came in and dropped wearily into a chair. “Do you know who that woman was?” he gasped. ” It was Miss Wend herself.”
“Who identified her?” asked Kennedy calmly.
“Oh, several people. Stacey recognised her at once. Then Hartstein, the adjuster for the insured, and Lazard, the adjuster for the company, both of whom had had more or less to do with her in connection with settling up for other fires, recognised her. She was a very clever woman, was Miss Wend, and a very important cog in the Stacey enterprises. And to think she was the firebug, after all. I can hardly believe it.”
“Why believe it?” asked Kennedy quietly.
“Why believe it?” echoed McCormick. “Stacey has found shortages in his books due to the operation of her departments. The bookkeeper who had charge of the accounts in her department, a man named Douglas, is missing. She must have tried to cover up her operations by fires and juggling the accounts. Failing in that she tried to destroy Stacey’s store itself, twice. She was one of the few that could get into the office unobserved. Oh, it’s a clear case now. To my mind, the heavy vapours of ether – they are heavier than air, you know – must have escaped along the surface of the floor last night and become ignited at a considerable distance from where she expected. She was caught in a back-draught, or something of the sort. Well, thank God, we’ve seen the last of this firebug business. What’s that?”
Kennedy had laid the letter-file on the table. “Nothing. Only I found this embedded in Miss Wend’s breast right over her heart.”
“Then she was murdered?” exclaimed McCormick.
“We haven’t come to the end of this case yet,” replied Craig evasively. “On the contrary, we have just got our first good clue. No, McCormick, your theory will not hold water. The real point is to find this missing bookkeeper at any cost. You must persuade him to confess what he knows. Offer him immunity – he was only a pawn in the hands of those higher up.”
McCormick was not hard to convince. Tired as he was, he grabbed up his hat and started off to put the final machinery in motion to wind up the long chase for the firebug.
“I must get a couple of hours’ sleep,” he yawned as he left us,” but first I want to start something toward finding Douglas. I shall try to see you about noon.”
I was too exhausted to go to the office. In fact, I doubt if I could have written a line. But I telephoned in a story of personal experiences at the Stacey fire and told them they could fix it up as they chose and even sign my name to it.
About noon McCormick came in again, looking as fresh as if nothing had happened. He was used to it.
“I know where Douglas is,” he announced breathlessly.
“Fine,” said Kennedy, “and can you produce him at any time when it is necessary?”
“Let me tell you what I have done. I went down to the district attorney from here – routed him out of bed. He has promised to turn loose his accountants to audit the reports of the adjusters, Hartstein and Lazard, as well as to make a cursory examination of what Stacey books there are left. He says he will have a preliminary report ready to-night, but the detailed report will take days, of course.