FIRE DESTROYS ALL
A great wave of loneliness swept over Florence as on the morrow’s chilly
dawn she bade good-bye to her beloved boon companion and to Sandy, then
saw them mount the steps of their plane and watched that plane soar away
into the blue.
“Isle Royale is hundreds of miles away,” she thought to herself. “They
will be back, I’m sure enough of that. Airplanes are safe enough. But
when shall I see them again?”
It was not loneliness alone that depressed her. She was experiencing a
feeling of dread. She had dug deeper into the lives and ways of some
fortune tellers than they could have wished.
“They are wolves,” she told herself, “and wolves are cowards. They fight
as cowards fight, in the dark.” She told them off on her fingers: the
dark-faced gypsy woman was one, Madame Zaran a second, Marianna
Cristophe, the voodoo priestess, a third. And there were others.
“And now,” she thought, “I am alone.”
Alone? No! Her spirits rose. There was still Frances Ward. “Good old
gray-haired Frances Ward!” she whispered. “Everybody’s grandmother. May
God bless her!”
It was Frances Ward who helped her over the first difficult hurdle of
that day. Sandy was gone. She must write her own stories. This seemed
easy enough, until she sat down to the typewriter. Then, all thoughts
left her.
“My dear, try a pencil,” Frances Ward suggested after a time. “A pencil
becomes almost human after you have used it long enough; a typewriter
never. And why don’t you write the story of your little lost girl, June
Travis? Use no names, but tell it so well that someone who knew her
father will come to her aid.”
“I’ll try.” Florence was endowed with fresh hope.
With four large yellow pencils before her, she began to write. The first
pencil broke. She threw it at the wall. The second broke. She threw it
after the first. Then thoughts and pencils began flowing evenly.
When, an hour later, Florence presented a typewritten copy of the story
for Mrs. Ward’s inspection she pronounced it, “Capital! The best that has
been in your column so far.”
It may be that this extravagant praise turned the girl’s head, leading
her to commit an act that brought her into great peril. However that may
be, at eight o’clock that night she fell into a trap.
The thing seemed safe enough. True, Florence did the greater part of
investigating in the day time. But a “spiritual adviser”—who would expect
any sort of danger from such a person?
That was what Professor Alcapar styled himself, “Spiritual Adviser.” Had
his sign hung from a church, Florence would not have given it a second
thought. But the card that fell into her hand said his studio was on one
of the upper floors of a great office building. Perhaps this should have
warned her, but it did not.
“I’ll just take the elevator up there and ask a question or two,” she
told herself. “Might get a grand story for tomorrow.” She did, but she
was not to write it—at least, not yet.
There was no glass in the door of Professor Alcapar’s studio. A light
shone through the crack at the edge of the door. She knocked, almost
timidly. The door was opened at once. She stepped inside. The door closed
itself. She was there.
Save for one small light in a remote corner, the room was shrouded in
darkness.
“More of their usual stuff,” she thought to herself without fear.
“Darkness stands for secrecy, mystery. At least, these people know how to
impress their clients. Spiritual adviser, clothed in darkness.”
She became conscious of someone near her. Then of a sudden she caught the
distinct click of a lock, and after that came a flood of light.
She took two backward steps, then stood quite still. With a single sweep
of her practiced eye, she took in all within the room. She started as her
eyes fell upon—of all persons!—Madame Zaran. She was seated in a chair,
smiling a complacent and knowing smile.
The person nearest to Florence was a small dark man with beady eyes.
Farther away, with his back to the door, was a powerfully built, swarthy
man whose broad neck was covered with bristles.
More interesting than these, and at once more terrifying, was a second
small man. He was working at a narrow bench. He wore dark goggles. In his
hand he held a sort of torch. The light from this torch, when he switched
it on, was blinding. With it he appeared to be engaged in joining certain
bits of metal. There was, however, on his face a look altogether
terrifying.
“I am trapped!” the girl thought to herself. “Ten stories up. And it is
night. Why did I come?”
“You wished to see Professor Alcapar?” a voice asked. It was the little
dark man who stood before her.
“Yes. I—” the words stuck in her throat. “They have locked the door!” she
was thinking a trifle wildly.
“I am Professor Alcapar,” said the little man in a perfectly professional
tone. “Perhaps these good people will excuse me. What can I do for you?”
“Why, I—” again the girl’s voice failed her.
Truly angry at herself, she was ready to stamp the floor, when the smooth
voice of Madame Zaran said, “Won’t you have a chair? You must have time
to compose yourself. The Professor, I am sure, can quiet your mind. He is
conscious of God. He makes others conscious of divine power.” The words
were spoken in an even tone. For all this, there was in them a suggestion
of malice that sent a cold shiver coursing up the girl’s spine.
“You have been kind enough to visit our other place of—of business,”
Madame Zaran went on when Florence was seated. “You see us here in a more
intimate circle. This is our—you might say, our retreat.”
“Retreat. Ah, yes, very well said, our retreat,” the Professor echoed.
Florence allowed her eyes to wander. They took in the window. At that
moment a great electric sign, some distance away, burst forth with a
brilliant red light. Across this flash of light, running straight up and
down, were two dark lines. She noted this, but for the moment gave it no
serious thought. It was of tremendous importance, for all that. A simple
fact, lightly observed but later recalled, has more than once saved a
life.
“You wished to see the Professor,” Madame reminded her. There was an evil
glint in her eye. At the same time the torch in the corner hissed, then
flamed white.
“Yes, I—well, you see,” the girl explained in a voice that was a trifle
weak, “I am interested in religion.”
“What kind of religion?” Madame Zaran smiled an evil smile.
“Why, all kinds.”
“The Professor,” said Madame, “is the sole representative of a religious
order found only in the hidden places of India. It is a very secret
order. They are mystic, and they worship fire, FIRE.”
She repeated that last word in a manner that caused the big girl’s cheek
to blanch. The torch in the corner went sput-sput-sput.
“Fire,” said the Professor in a voice that was extraordinarily deep for
one so small, “Fire destroys all, ALL! All that I know, all that _you_
know may be destroyed by a single breath of flame.”
“Yes, I—”
Florence’s throat was dry. To calm her fluttering heart she gazed again
at the window. Once more the red light of that street sign flared out. As
before, two dark lines cut across it, up and down. Then, like a flash,
the girl knew what those lines were. They ran from the roof to the
ground. She had noted them in a dreamy sort of way as she entered the
building. Now they appeared to stand out before her in bold relief.
Then there burst upon her startled ears a sharp cry of anger. She looked
quickly at Madame’s face. It was black as the western sky before a storm.
“You do not even listen!” She was fairly choking with anger as she fixed
her burning eyes on Florence. “You did not come here to seek spiritual
advice. You came here as a spy. A _spy_!” Her breath failed her. But in
the corner the white-hot torch sputtered, and to Florence’s terrified
vision, written on the wall in letters of flame there appeared the word,
SPY!
“He could burn those words upon one’s breast,” she thought. “With that
torch he could burn out one’s heart!” She gripped at her breast to still
the hard beating of her heart.
“Why do you spy upon us?” Madame was speaking again. “Is it because we
are frauds? Because we pretend to know that which we do not know? What is
that to you?
“Is it because we take money from those who can well afford to give? Look
you! We are poor. We have no money. But we must live, and live we will!
Why not?” She laughed a hoarse laugh. “Why not? And what is it to you if
we do live well at the expense of those who are weak and foolish? You and
your paper! Bah!” She arose with a threatening gesture. As she took two
steps forward her hands became claws, her teeth the fangs of a wild
thing.
Florence sprang back in sudden terror.
But the woman before her tottered on her feet. Her face turned a sickish
purple.
“No! No!” She gurgled in her throat. “It is not for me! Come, Beppo!”
The man at the bench turned half about. At the same time his torch glowed
with a more terrifying flame.
“Fire! Fire!” the Professor mumbled.
But for Florence there was to be no fire. She was half way across the
room. Ten seconds later she had thrown up the window and was standing on
the ledge.
Caught by surprise, the others in the room stood motionless, like puppets
in a play. What did they think—that she would dash her life out on the
pavement below? Or did they just not think at all?
To Florence life had always seemed beautiful; never so much so as at that
moment. To live, to dream, to hope, to struggle on and on toward some
unseen distant goal. Ah, yes, life! Life! To feel the breath of morning
on your cheek, to face the rising sun, to throw back your shoulders, to
drink in deep breaths of air, to whisper, “God, I thank you for life!”
This was Florence always. She would not willingly dash out her own
brains.
Nor was there the need. Before her, an easy arm’s length away, were two
stout ropes. The roof was undergoing repairs. Material was drawn up on
these ropes. They ended in a large tub on the sidewalk ten stories below.
There was not a second to lose. The paralysis inside that room would soon
pass. And then—
Her two strong arms shot out. She gripped a rope. She swung out over
space. Her feet twisted about the rope. She shot downward. There was a
smell of scorching leather. Windows passed her. In one room a char-woman
scrubbed a floor, in a second a belated worker kissed his stenographer
good-night, and then, plump! she landed at the feet of a young man who,
up until that second, had been strolling the street reading a book.
The young man leaped suddenly into the air. The book came down with a
loud slap.
“Do—do you do that sort of thing reg—regularly?” the young man stuttered
when he had regained a little of his dignity. He looked up at the rope as
if expecting to see a whole bevy of girls, perhaps angels too, descending
on the rope.
“No,” Florence laughed a trifle shakily, “I don’t do it often.”
“But see here!” the young man exclaimed, “you look all sort of white and
shaky, as if you—you’d seen a ghost or something! How about a good cup of
java or—or something, on a stool, you know—right around the corner?
Perfectly respectable, I assure you.”
“As if I cared just now!” Florence thought to herself. “Imagine being
afraid of a young student on a stool, after a thing like that!” She
glanced up, then once more felt afraid.
“Fire!” She seemed to hear the Professor say, “Fire destroys all.”
“Yes! Sure!” She seized the astonished young man’s arm. “Sure. Let’s go
there. Quick!”