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

When Fischer didn’t dig for a match, Manning struck one for his cigarette and watched those eyes fasten on the flame.

“She’ll have to put up with it a while,” he said.

“Sure, Marshall. I know how it is. But those sudden things aren’t going to come over me any more.” Fischer lowered his voice. “Don’t louse up my job for me, will you? The customers and my boss don’t like all this checking up.”

“We don’t like it either,” said Manning.

“Then lay off,” pleaded Fischer.

“It’s a promise,” Manning declared, “whenever we’re convinced you’re laying off for keeps.”

Fischer hooked his thumb above the leather holder. “You can count on it, Marshal.”

The moon went into its last quarter, then down to a sliver, and early one afternoon the Old Man sent for Manning.

“I’ve received a complaint from Fischer’s employer. He doesn’t want to have to fire Fischer. Says he’s a good worker.”

“They usually are,” Manning agreed. “That’s the hell of it. Makes them look like good old rehabilitated Joe Citizens — until the next compulsion comes along. Then we get the hell of it.”

“I’m not censuring you, Ed,” the Old Man said placatingly. “I’m just reconfirming my stand behind you.”

“Thanks, Chief.” Manning went back to his office. Sims raised his eyebrows. “Carry on as usual,” Manning said, “but be a little less obvious watching Fischer.”

Sims growled. “With two crowded conventions over where he’s working now? It’s enough to start gray hairs pushing through my bald spot. If I had my way—”

The phone gave the long ring which meant an alarm summons for the Arson Bureau. Manning grabbed it and, listening to the dispatcher, felt a chill and thought of gay little faces.

“Grammar School Six,” he repeated, as he snatched his white cap from the desk and hit the brass pole in the corridor.

Three screaming blocks from headquarters the dispatcher called again, via radio, “Cancel School Six. No blaze. Kids horseplaying in the cafeteria broke a sprinkler and flooded the place.”

“Ten-four, Car Seven,” Manning acknowledged, relieved, but sweating and wondering if kids would start knocking off sprinklers now that they knew reduced water pressure automatically rang in an alarm. He swung back to the office. Sims had gone home to sleep before taking the evening vigil on Fischer. He’d left a note.

“She called. Wouldn’t listen to me. Try your charm.”

Manning phoned Julia Worden.

“Well, Marshal,” she said, “full moon has come and gone.”

“It’s the new one, the dark of the moon,” he replied. “Now it starts building up to the full again.”

“In other words,” she charged, “as your crude assistant said—”

“My apologies there,” Manning interrupted. “Avoid conversations with him, Miss Worden. He’s had it rough and hasn’t learned to take it as gracefully as... as some people.”

When she spoke again, her voice was subdued. “You’re very understanding, Marshal.”

“Sometimes it doesn’t appear that way,” he answered. “I want to give Fischer a break, Miss Worden, but I don’t dare. I’ve been burned too many times — rather, too many innocent people have.”

“You’re still going to hound him then,” she accused sharply.

“We’re still going to watch him,” Manning corrected. “How do you think I’d feel if we backed off and something serious happened?”

“How does it feel not to let him live a normal life?”

“I don’t have any choice,” said Manning. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I, Marshal.”

She hung up. Manning reluctantly released the phone on the cradle and glowered at the calendar.

That evening in his bachelor apartment he was catching up on reports for the Old Man when the phone jangled at nine thirty-five.

“Marshal,” said the dispatcher. “You’re wanted at six-four-seven West Eighth.” Manning squinted. That was Ray Fischer’s home. “They said to tell you, Marshal, that they got him.”

Manning had his official car at home since his bureau was shorthanded by the stakeout and sick leaves. As he wailed across town he felt no vindicating elation. This was going to be a blow to Julia Worden. Did she have enough courage left after the other bumps she’d been over?

Swinging into Eighth he saw red flashers on turret tops, a black and white police sedan, and two red coupes. Sims came to Manning’s car with glowing eyes.

“I told you it would happen. The damn fool. With us right on his tail from a drive-in movie, he sets one in the alley.”

“Did you see him do it?” Manning demanded, getting out.

“He was standing right over it when I nabbed him. Stinnard called in an alarm, then blacked it down with a garden hose before the rigs got rolling. We got him cuffed in the prowl car.”

Manning started toward the police sedan, but a long-legged girl came running down the steps of the Fischer home to intercept him. Rivulets glistened on her cheeks.

“He didn’t do it,” she screamed. “I’m his wife. I was with him every second. He didn’t do it I”

This was the part Manning always hated. He waited until she ran out of breath. “Mrs. Fischer, you and his parents wouldn’t let yourselves believe it the other times either.”

“But I know,” she cried.

She’d known his record too when they eloped, but her folks just raised their hands and said what could you do with young people these days? And, Manning wondered, what could you do with some adults these days?

He opened the sedan’s door. Fischer leaned against the cushions, his hands cuffed behind him.

“Well, Ray?” said Manning.

Fischer shrugged. There was no animosity in his eyes as he replied, “You never believe me anyway.” He stared away, but his young wife, screaming, pulled at Manning. “Why don’t you leave us alone?”

“Elaine!” Julia Worden said sharply behind Manning. He turned. She wore a gray suit that wasn’t at all masculine.

Fischer’s wife sobbed. “I–I tried to call you. There was no answer.”

Manning stared at Julia Worden. How did she know then? What was she doing here? There was no friendliness in her gaze.

“I want to speak to you, Marshal, privately.”

Sims jeered. “Why don’t you be a good sport, Miss Worden?”

Her eyes flashed at him, then back to Manning.

“Will my car do?” he asked.

She nodded.

It wasn’t just night chill that Manning felt, following her. She turned suddenly on the curb, making him pause in the gutter. A bystander edged near in the darkness.

“Beat it!” Manning snapped, then faced Julia Worden.

“I keep vigils too, Marshal,” she said. “I kept one tonight to see that my case got in by nine thirty. I saw him start to obey my rule, then move toward the fire — which your man set!”

Manning started. “Sims?” he exclaimed in a shallow whisper.

“I’d like to believe, Marshal, that you didn’t order it. That is why I waited until you arrived. But that’s personal. What is more important — what are you going to do about it?”

Manning stared, stunned beyond belief. Julia Worden didn’t wait. She spread it all out for him to choose.

“It’s my word, one woman, one person — his wife wouldn’t be believed anyway — against two of your men, Marshal, against your own obsession about Ray Fischer.”

Manning felt the impact of her anger. His face burned, yet coldness clamped his chest, freezing any possible words. Turning, getting a flashlight from his car, he beckoned Sims to follow between houses to the rear alley. His sweeping light revealed sodden, blackened rubbish near a garage, close enough to have touched the garage off once the blaze got going, but the structure was scarcely scorched. He raised the light full into Sims’s face.