THE SHOOTING FLAME
“And that’s that,” said Bill, still keeping his voice to a whisper.
“Disgusting old beast! Let’s turn off the lights in here and try the
window. Anything is better than lying here.”
“Wait a minute—I’ve an idea!” Sanborn pointed to the fireplace. Bill
nodded and together they wriggled across the rugs.
The chimney, with its grate of glowing coals, was an old-fashioned
structure. Although probably no older than this modern residence, it
appeared to be a worthy monument of another generation. Wide at the
base, it tapered toward the top, and on its inner walls a number of iron
staples, rusty and covered with soot, led upward.
Sanborn stepped within the chimney and grasped the first staple. “Phew!”
he gasped, jerking his hand away, “—_hot!_”
“And probably insecure.” Bill was beside him now. They were out of the
line of fire from the door and windows. “I’ll tell you what—that ladder!
Wait—” He picked up a small shovel from the hearth. “I’ll get these live
coals into the scuttle. That should cool the chimney some.”
Sanborn helped with a tongs, and the coals were quickly transferred.
Bill found a wall switch and turned off the light. Together they went to
the window by which Bill had entered, and cautiously lifting the shade a
couple of inches, they peered through the glass. Three men, revolvers in
hand, were approaching the ladder across a flower bed.
“Get ’em in the legs,” whispered Sanborn.
Two shots rang out like one, and two of the attackers dropped in their
tracks. The third, evidently deciding that distance lent enchantment,
streaked for the shadow of the trees without returning their fire. They
let him go.
Bill raised the window and they seized the topmost rung of the ladder
and started to haul it into the library. It was half-way through the
window when there came a flash from the corner of the house. The glass
door of a bookcase was shattered, but neither Bill nor the detective
paid any attention to it. A second more and the ladder was inside.
Sanborn mopped the perspiration from his brow. “Jiminy! That was close,
Bill.”
Bill nodded and stuck his head out of the window. “Lucky they can’t see
us, sir. They might try to snipe us from behind the trees.”
As though in answer to his challenge, without warning, the chandelier
that hung from the ceiling in a spray of electric bulbs, sprang into
light.
“Duck, Bill, duck!” A fusillade of shots rang out as the pair dropped to
the floor.
Bill’s eyes fell upon the pile of black coal he had dumped from the
scuttle before filling it with the hot ones from the grate. Motioning
Sanborn to follow, he wormed his way to the hearth and picked up a
good-sized piece of coal. He handed it to Sanborn and took a similar
piece himself. Then he pointed to the electric bulbs, and winked
cheerfully.
They hurled their missiles simultaneously. Bill’s was a bullseye but the
detective’s fell short of the mark. With the “plop” and the tinkle of
falling glass, one of the bulbs was out of action. Bill grabbed another
coal and a moment later the room went dark again.
“Good shooting, Bill.”
“Not so worse. Now gimme a hand with the ladder, sir. We’ll push it up
the chimney.”
It was easier said than done. The ladder was too long and the angle too
acute.
“Never mind, Bill. We must chance it.”
Ashton Sanborn felt the staple he had tried before. It was still warm,
but bearable to the touch. “I’ll go first. It’s a good thing you wore
gloves.”
“Yes, but I wish they were leather, not cotton. Still, my hands feel all
right.”
“That’s good. Got a handkerchief? Here’s mine. Stuff one inside each
glove. They’ll protect the thin skin of your palms.”
“Thanks. Gee, this is a wild party, isn’t it? I didn’t expect to be
throwing coal at light bulbs—or stuffing handkerchiefs in my gloves—but
say, sir, what about Lambert?”
“Lord! I’d almost forgotten him. Here, lend me a hand with the ladder.
It will be useful after all. We don’t want our friend to topple over
with the chair and let them in that way.”
They placed the top of the ladder against the upper panel of the door
and thrust the bound man’s head between two of the rungs. Then they
jammed the foot of the ladder into one of the bookshelves, removing half
a dozen books to make way for it. It fitted and held firmly.
“Good! Now, you keep the ladder nicely in position, Lambert,” warned the
detective. “The chances are if they break down the door, they’ll break
your neck. Sorry—but time means more than kindness just now. You weren’t
too considerate of a certain young lady the other night, either. And it
will probably save the state the price of a hangman—So long!”
They left the silent figure and again essayed the ascent of the chimney.
The air was almost stifling, but the staples held. Through clouds of
soot dislodged by their progress, the two made their way upward. There
came a slope in the angle of the chimney, and a dim square appeared
overhead, a shade less dark than the blackness that enveloped them.
Sanborn felt for his electric torch, then remembered he had left it in
his car. Feeling in his pockets, he finally produced a box of matches.
After considerable trouble, he managed to strike one. The draught
immediately extinguished it. The nearer they got to the top, however,
the less dark the chimney seemed. Meanwhile he had to feel round for
every staple, sending showers of soot upon Bill with every movement.
Again Sanborn felt the wall. Yes, there was no doubt about it. A good
twenty feet to go, and no more staples. Well, there was nothing for it
except to travel mountaineering fashion, back braced against one wall,
feet against the other. It seemed simple enough, but when he attempted
it, the chimney proved too wide, and he all but crashed onto Bill just
below.
A sudden gust of wind sent a cloud of smoke belching down the shaft.
Sanborn shut his eyes and gripped the last staple. He could hear Bill
coughing and spluttering down below, while the shaft slowly cleared.
Then Sanborn discovered that just above his head the inlet of another
chimney joined the main shaft. He decided that the smoke came from
there. It must be passed, and quickly, for the air was foul enough
without the addition of smoke. Again he tried to wriggle upward, but
found that the heat and the fumes from the other shaft were too much for
him. He eased down again to the comparative security of the staple. If
he could manage to stand on that last staple, he might somehow get past
the vomiting side vent. But even if the chimney narrowed above the other
shaft, the smoke would be suffocating.
“Buck up, sir!” Bill’s voice sounded thick and weary. “What’s the
trouble?”
Sanborn told him. “Guess we’ll have to go down,” he began, then stopped
as the sound of splintering wood reached their ears from the library,
and a crash. A moment later there was a rush of feet and a cry as Fanely
discovered that their prisoners were missing. There was further
scurrying, then that high, menacing voice.
“The chimney! That’s where they are!”
A moment’s silence, then the sound of a shot reverberated deafeningly up
the shaft. The chimney immediately filled with particles of soot
scattered by the percussion. Both Bill and the detective mentally
blessed that change in the angle of the chimney.
“Ah!—” again that hideous voice,—“I have an inspiration—yes, an
inspiration. We shall—er—relight the fire!”
Sanborn swore under his breath.
“Yes, yes, relight the fire. And I think a little gasoline is indicated.
Lambert, you are well enough to phone the garage for a can or two?
Jacques, go fetch some paper and wood. No, wait a moment. Shovels can be
used, there is one on the hearth—to transport the fire from the dining
room fireplace. Peter, you stand here and shoot them if they come down.”
For several minutes Bill and Sanborn clung to their precarious perches,
each wracking his brain for a way out of this horrible snare.
“Listen!” cried Bill in a hoarse whisper. “Hold on tight. I’m going to
climb up your body. Then I’ll get a foot on the top of the other shaft
and haul you up. I can get on your shoulders again and get a grip on the
top of the chimney. You can climb out and haul me after you. What do you
think?”
“It’s a chance, Bill. And if we don’t smother in the attempt, it’s worth
trying, anyway. Come ahead.”
Bill pulled himself upward and over Sanborn’s body until he stood on the
detective’s broad shoulders. Then he gasped in astonishment. The heat
and smoke from the other chimney had subsided and the air was now
bearable. The explanation came like a flash. This must be the outlet
from the dining room, from which the fire had been removed. There was
not a moment to lose.
Dropping his legs into the dining room shaft, he lay bellywise across
the junction of the two openings and reached down toward Sanborn.
“Hurry up, old sport,” he cried, gripping the detective’s extended
hands. “That’s right—up you come!”
“But what—the smoke’s gone—”
“Never mind that now—drop down this shaft beside me. It’s narrow enough
to brace with your back and legs. And make it snappy, too, or you’ll get
singed.”
Ashton Sanborn swung back beside Bill. There was a subdued roar down the
chimney. Then a sheet of flame shot upward.