The Flaming Lady Murder

Начало книги

The red sedan took the corner on screeching rubber, rocketed into the dark canyon of the garment center with siren wailing and bloodshot eye blinking.

It was a one-way street; Chief Fire Marshal Ben Pedley came roaring into it the wrong way, but he kept the speedometer at seventy.

Bus drivers locked their brakes, closed their eyes and prayed. Truckmen cursed, backing huge trailers frantically. Taxies climbed the curb.

West of Broadway the block was jammed with gleaming red apparatus. Against the claret wine spilling from a dozen headlights, helmeted silhouettes converged on a towering loft building.

He slid the sedan in behind a combination pumper and hook-and-ladder, snatched smoke mask and hand torch, leaped to the sidewalk.

Forty stories above, a feather of smoke trailed from one of the topmost windows. Except where its underside was reddened by the glare reflected from the pavement, the smoke was light gray... and the Marshal swore in relief.

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