Corpse on the Grill

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The Fire Marshal groped his way through the labyrinth of round tables on which were stacked a forest of upturned chairs. His electric torch penetrated only a few feet into the swirling fog of thick, cream-colored smoke. His feet slipped from under him; with an effort he managed to catch his balance.

The beam of his flashlight, turned down, disclosed a sheet of ice rutted with the marks of many skates. The marshal had known they put on a skating floor show here, but hadn’t been sure it was real ice or the imitation stuff that didn’t require freezing. He mumbled a curse through his smoke mask; this discovery didn’t make him feel any easier!

From the floor above him came the hoarse thunder of lancing streams from high-pressure nozzles; from the wintry street outside came a fury of noise — throbbing pumpers, motors shrieking sirens and the excited clamor of people being hustled out of their beds in the tenements to the west. But here, in the tremendous dining-room of this Broadway cafe, was neither flame nor the crackling of fire — only a soundless menace lurking in those oily wreaths of smoke.

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