Black Mask (Vol. 21, No. 10 — January 1939)

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Miles Standish Rice twisted uncomfortably on the hard bed of the Palatka Hotel fighting a series of persistent bumps which seemed to protrude everlastingly from the cement surface of the mattress. Outside of his window a tall palm brushed caressingly against the screen, throwing shadows across the ceiling as it cloaked the glow of a street light below.

Stan turned disgustedly, found a new position, and sought sleep which refused to come. Miami, and his own oversized bed, were four hundred miles away. The winter season was at its peak, and a beach replete with suntanned girls was eagerly waiting for his return. He regarded the moving shadows on the ceiling with an unpleasant frown. Across the hall, far too close for comfort, some happy sleeper had begun to snore.

He reached for cigarettes and matches conveniently placed on a chair beside his bed. The match flared up. Almost as though in answer to a signal a moaning wail started across the street, sliced through the noise of the snoring sleeper, and reached up and up to a wild frenzied scream. Mournfully it reached a pitch which roused the sleeping town, then died away, sending its dreaded warning far over the broad expanse of the St. John’s River. Fire!

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