Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

“Okay, okay,” I said, cutting him off. “Was anybody hurt?”

“A couple. Guyton Crowell got cold-cocked by the blast, they hauled him off in an ambulance. Jimmy Fee got burned, but not too bad. EMTs are tapin’ him up. Everybody else is okay.”

“Thank God for that,” I said, taking a deep breath, scanning their faces. And coming up one short. “Where’s Nate?”

“Who?”

“Old Nate Crowell, Guyton’s grandfather. He’s been working up in the Mill.”

“Jeez, I forgot all about—” But I was already running.

Vaulting the tape line, I sprinted past the firemen, ignoring their shouts. Bursting through the front doors, I charged up the stairway with Puck only a few steps behind. Deke was right. There was a lot of smoke, no flames. The fire was still contained within the elevator shaft, but as soon as it burned its way out, the old building would go up like a box of matches.

We found Nate Crowell in the Gin Mill, sitting calmly at his worktable, hands folded in his lap.

“Nate, are you okay?”

“So far, Mr. Shea.” He smiled. “I smelled the smoke, wasn’t quite sure what to do. Figured you or Guyton would be along presently. I was just beginning to wonder.”

“No sweat, everything’s under control,” I lied. “We’d best use the fire escape, though. There’s a lot of smoke below and we don’t want to be halfway down when the fire breaks through. Let’s go.”

We hurried through the ballroom to the fire exit that opened onto the roof. But at the last second, Nate stopped and turned back toward the room. Not seeing it, of course, but taking it in. One last time.

And then we were through the door, onto the roof. Five stories below, a fire truck was hosing down the building. Firemen shouted at us to come down. No problem, we were on our way.

Puck helped Nate onto the cast-iron fire escape. As soon as he got his bearings, the old man moved right along. At the bottom we passed him off to two young firemen, who headed off around the building, yelling at us to follow. I didn’t. Couldn’t. I was frozen, staring up at the roof.

“What are you waiting for?” Puck shouted. “Let’s go.”

“That old water tank,” I said, pointing upward. “It’s right over the elevator shaft. If I can punch through it, it’ll drown the fire.”

“Don’t be crazy! If the fire breaks out while you’re up there you’ll be trapped!”

“Dammit, Puck, we’ve worked too damned hard to lose this now.” I didn’t wait for his answer. Grabbing a fire ax off the truck, I was scrambling back up the fire escape before anyone could stop me.

Puck watched me go, cursing. Then started up after me. At the top, I halted, swallowing hard. The tarred roof around the water tank was already bubbling, puffs of smoke popping through, cooking in the flames roaring up the elevator shaft. The whole damned roof could collapse at any second.

No time to worry about that. Racing to the water tank, I was squaring off to swing as Puck clambered off the fire escape.

“Hold on, Danny,” he gasped. Gray-faced, panting, he knelt, trying to catch his breath.

“Puck, I can’t wait—”

“Dammit, listen to me! Don’t hit it on a seam. If the rivets start popping, the tank could split open and blast us both down to the parking lot. Punch a hole in the middle of a panel, the lower down the better.”

“Okay, I got it. Now get off the roof.”

“Hell no! I’ll croak of a heart attack if I try them stairs again. Bust it, Danny! Now! Before we burn!”

He was right, I could already feel the tar going spongy beneath my feet. Setting myself again, I took a savage swing. The ax head clanged off the tank, denting it but not breaking through. I swung again, and again, with the heat and smoke boiling up around me. But I couldn’t do more than dent it.

The hell with this! Moving over a step, I squared off and swung with everything I had, slamming the axe squarely on a riveted seam.

And punched it through!

With a roar, the gout of water ripped the axe from my hands, sweeping my legs out from under me, blasting me across the roof like a cockroach headed for a drain. Tried to get up, got a mouthful of foul water instead. Then something grabbed my throat, dragging me under. Trying to twist free, I managed to get a hand on — Puck’s arm.

He’d seized my collar as the flood swept me past. Clinging to the fire escape with one hand and me with the other, he was the only thing keeping me from being swept off the roof.

Rolling onto my hands and knees, I crawled across him, both of us clinging to the iron rail as the water roiled and swirled around us. With a shudder, a section of roof beneath the tank caved in, pulling the plug on the flood, sending thousands of gallons hurtling down the elevator shaft. Fire and flood collided in a swirling maelstrom, shaking the building like an earthquake, blasting a geyser of steam and superheated gas skyward before the crushing weight of the water prevailed, drowning the blaze in a matter of seconds.