Фредерик Браун - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 37, No. 6. Whole No. 211, June 1961

“How long are you going to be handling the Fischer case?”

Julia Worden seemed amused by his dismay. “Please be seated, Marshal Manning. I don’t like people looking down at me.”

He sat. “Suppose I brief you in on why I’m so brusque.”

“Let me talk,” she interrupted. “It may save time and temper if I tell you what I have already learned.” Her slim hand touched a folder. “You first caught Ray Fischer for a residential garage fire when he was seven years old. All children, Marshal, go through the playing-with-matches stage.”

“I know.” Manning tried to be patient. “I hauled him and his parents before a juvenile judge who told them off too. It was a first offense — the first known one — and no charges were made since they paid the damages. But you’re supposed to be telling me, so go on.”

She did, coolly mentioning unproved neighborhood grass fires, but detailing the high school janitor’s closet which could have been spontaneous combustion. Anyway, it happened outside of school hours and Ray Fischer was in the building, claiming he had come back for some sports gear. Again no prosecution, but a judge ordered psychiatric analysis and then placed him on probation for six months.

Next came a gap in the record which Manning had never been able to fill officially — a series of apartment, hotel, and department store fires, all obviously arson jobs. At the times, he had interrogated all known suspects, particularly Fischer who, of course, claimed innocence. Finally Manning had got a conviction, less than two years ago, for the first of the two tenement fires. Now Fischer was out again despite numerous previous questionings about arson jobs in neighboring cities, though no convictions.

Julia Worden met Manning’s eye. “Did I overlook anything?”

“That’s what I’m hoping you won’t do,” he said. “I know your office is overworked, but this guy’s got to be watched.”

“If I don’t do it, you’ll hound him. Is that it, Marshal?”

Manning started to stand up, but recalled she didn’t like that. “I’ll give any guy a break if he deserves it. And I’d like to see one handed to my department and police friends sometime. We’re going round and round in a squirrel cage, grabbing pyros, perverts, known felons, and then having the Parole Board turn them loose. Fischer is only one of too many.”

“On the face of the record perhaps,” Julia Worden began.

Manning stood over her. “On the charred faces of victims. It’s bad enough that Fischer is a compulsive pyro — the psychiatric report confirms that — but he’s shifted his touch-offs to crowded areas for added thrill. He’s a menace.”

“He’s a human being, Marshal, and I don’t think he’s been given a chance to be one.”

Staring down at her, Manning ignored a revision of his original estimate. Give her some rest to remove that weariness about the eyes and she was a cover girl.

“He’s a menace to other human beings who are trying to live normal, adjusted lives. I don’t know what your background is, Miss Worden, but if you take my advice you’ll have this case transferred to a man.” He could see by her smile she regarded that as a victory. He couldn’t cope with her. A man would be an easier pushover. Manning thumped his fist on the desk. “Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. Fischer is dangerous, untrustworthy. You can’t handle him with a lot of do-good theories.”

She studied him. “You know, Marshal, I think you’re right.” She smiled. “Maybe you have got it in you to give a person a break.”

Manning hefted that in his mind, but couldn’t decide whether it was genuine or bail. “Let me know who’s taking the case until Redfield gets back.”

“I already told you, Marshal. I’m taking it.”

Manning went down to his car, swearing. At Grammar School Six, fine-combing his words, he felt he wasn’t reaching the gay little faces that looked like a huge bed of flowers in the auditorium. But when he finished, the kids cheered him, and...

“Pretty rugged, Marshal,” remarked the baldheaded principal. “You scared me, but I guess we all need it.”

“Oh, Marshal,” gushed a Mrs. Ackerman, willowy P.T.A. president, “you were so forceful and dynamic. I’m going to speak to our program chairman. The women’s auxiliary must hear you.”

Escaping, Manning headed determinedly for headquarters, but detoured to answer a battalion chief’s request for an investigator at a loft fire. Thinking of Fischer, the Parole Board, and Julia Worden, he barely checked himself from acting like Sims. He cited the loft tenant for misdemeanor, not criminal negligence. When he got to the office, Sims took his bum leg off the desk.

“Don’t tell me, Ed. I can see it. And I also found out why you didn’t get cooperation from the Worden dame. Her old man’s an ex-judge who once sentenced a guy to be hanged, then found out he was wrong, too late. He led the fight against capital punishment. Now he’s on the Parole Board.”

“So that’s where I heard the name before,” Manning muttered. “I guess, in his spot, I would have joined the abolitionists too.”

“For doing what you thought was your job?” Sims demanded. “But wait, you haven’t heard anything yet. At the time of the execution, Julia Worden was just plain housewife. Too bad she still isn’t.”

“What about her?” Manning asked irritably. He hadn’t noticed a ring on her finger.

“Her husband,” said Sims, “was a highway patrolman, the arresting officer in the case. Six months after the mistaken necktie party his car went off the road one night. It’s still a question of whether it was accident or suicide.”

Manning blew through his teeth. “She’s had it rough. You’d never know, though.” He stared at the calendar. “We’d better take over Chick. Put a twenty-four-hour surveillance on Fischer.”

The round-the-clock watch was a nightmare. Fischer had a job with a floor-covering outfit which specialized in public buildings — hotels, restaurants, theaters — places where a pyro could jeopardize scores of lives. Manning’s men crowded right after him.

Manning, taking over from an Inspector whose wife was going to have a baby, prowled the service hall and kitchen adjoining a hotel banquet room. It was the day after full moon, still too close for comfort. Sniffing, he poked around rolls of linoleum and other paraphernalia, opened closets and cabinets. Suddenly, a voice spoke very quietly behind him.

“If you find anything, Marshal, it won’t be my doing.”

Turning, Manning glimpsed intent brown eyes, blond crewcut, moonface tanned from working on the prison honor farm — part of the good behavior that had earned the parole. Then he stiffened inwardly when he became aware that Fischer, standing close, held a trimming knife, sharp and hooked, at stomach level.

“I hope you’re right,” said Manning, watching the knife indirectly. “Nothing pleases me more than not to find anything.”

Fischer’s cheeks bunched. “Thank you, Marshal.” He slipped the knife into a leather holder. “No hard feelings.”

“That depends on you,” Manning said evenly.

“I’m a changed man, Marshal. Didn’t Miss Worden tell you?”

Manning nodded, thinking that he’d also been told once that marriage would make a difference in Fischer. He’d almost believed it — until those two tenement fires.

“How’s the wife?” he inquired, offering a cigarette.

Fischer’s gaze hardened. “I gave them up,” he said curtly. Then, relaxing, he went on. “She’s having to get used to being in nights by nine thirty. Miss Worden’s orders for me. My wife’s bothered more, though, by your men following us everywhere, hanging around outside all night.”