Eliot Ness had never really seen a fire before.
That is, not a fire in the sense of a burning building, like this modest, run-down two-story frame house that was managing somehow to retain its structure while the inside of it burned, the flames having eaten away much of the roof to lick the night sky. Now that the fire was more or less under control, the flames no longer rose from the top of the house. Instead, a strangely white column of smoke climbed into the overcast sky to make it even more cloudy, while flames twitched in the otherwise dark and broken windows of the house, like the flickering within the eyes of a jack o' lantern.
Ness had been here almost from the beginning. He'd even pitched in with getting the old people out of the house and onto the cold street. Many of them were in robes and even pajamas but neighbors had come out bearing heavy coats to help the shivering, bewildered old folks; some of them were barefoot, and neighbors rustled up shoes and slippers for impromptu footwear. Most of these now-homeless elderly were wheezing from the smoke, several were crying, and a few vomited onto the frozen ground.
Two were dead. Two old men who'd shared a room in the back of the house, on the ground floor, where the fire had started. Incinerated. Their bodies, the charred logs that had been their bodies, were removed by firemen who'd carried them out of the steaming, smoking building, cradled in their arms like black babies, to be deposited in asbestos-lined wicker baskets, and put in the back of a Black Maria, bound for the morgue.
It had shaken Ness. A fire striking one small building-a dilapidated house passing as a refuge for the aged, just another shabby frame house on the East Side, in a working-class, mostly Slovak neighborhood-made for a full-scale disaster.
Especially in Cleveland, where the fire department was using equipment that was modern only in the sense that horses weren't pulling it. Ness had taken the safety director's job because of its relationship to the police de-partment, to law enforcement. He had not, frankly, given the fire department much thought.
Thus far he'd had only one brief meeting, on Thursday morning, with Fire Chief Grainger. All else had been police matters. The mayor's two-month ticking clock made that the top priority. This included dealing with Potter, who'd seethed silently at the news of his "promotion," and the betting-parlor raid, on which he'd allowed Wild to come, where as expected someone had phoned in a tip-off, queering the bust.
Tonight, Friday, he was learning that the fire department was just as troubled as the police. Corruption wasn't the problem. The men Ness had seen tonight did their jobs bravely and relatively well. However, he'd also seen fire hoses with low pressure due to leakage, patched hoses that wouldn't fit hydrants without some imaginative jury-rigging, and a hook-and-ladder truck so decrepit that it, arrived after the two police squads and the pumper truck and the ambulance.
Ness had been on his way home this Friday night, after a long afternoon of meetings with various commissioners and department heads, when he heard on his one-way police radio the call go out for police backup on a fire at an old folks' home at 933 East Seventy-eighth Street. It seemed like a good opportunity to check out the fire department in action. It was already ten o'clock, and he had a brief thought of Eva waiting for him well into the evening, but he dismissed it.
He had pulled up in the Ford and leaped out and pitched in, helping those old people out the front door. The frame house was distinguishable from its neighbors only by its state of dilapidation, a small sign saying JOANNA HOME that hung from the roof over the porch and, of course, the fact that it was very much on fire.
"I'm the safety director," Ness had snapped at the team of three firemen who were trying, with little success, to get the pumper truck in operation. "Where the hell's your hook-and-ladder?"
They looked at him and shrugged, in unison, and went back to their work. It would have been amusing, if the air hadn't been filled with the crying and coughing and rasping and puking of the dozen or more old people, trooping out of the house like refugees, aided by fire fighters and neighbors.
The hook-and-ladder arrived minutes later, and Ness identified himself to the battalion chief who rode on board, a middle-aged potbellied Irishman with a nose as red as the fire.
"Where the hell have you been, Chief?"
"Director Ness, I'm sorry-but you can only get to a fire so fast when your truck's so old it can only climb hills in reverse gear. Now if you'll be excusing me, sir, I have a fire to put out."
Ness had no answer to that, and when he got a look at the ancient, rusted-out hook-and-ladder, he could only sympathize.
The fire fighters did a good job, considering. They began by quickly, thoroughly wetting down the houses on either side of the burning one. The street was filled with curious neighbors, including those who'd fled the homes bordering the Joanna, and the two police squad cars, which Ness had beat to the scene by several minutes, another fact that didn't sit well with him, began crowd control procedures, keeping them back on the other side of the street. The front of the house became a wall of ice as water from the hoses froze on contact. The whole scene was a nightmare of hot and cold, fire and ice.
"These goddamn winter fires are the worst," one soot-rouged fireman told Ness, in a panting, hoarse voice.
Ness understood. He had watched the frustrated fire fighters, kneeling over the frozen-up hydrants, using blow torches to melt them down-fighting fire with fire.
One group of firemen was in the house, while another group climbed ladders, smashing out upper windows, having already done so on the first floor. They seemed somewhat scattered in their efforts, with many of the younger men frantically asking older ones what to do next. The battalion chief to whom Ness had spoken seemed to be the only one with authority, and he was busy directing the outside hoses.
The fire fighters had decided the building was now empty. A fortyish, rail-thin woman was in charge, but it had not yet been pinned down if she was the owner or not. Mrs. Winters proved to be as cold as her name.
"This'll cost me a pretty penny," she disgustedly told Ness, who had inquired after the old people, getting from the gray-robed woman an exact count of the number of "patients" at the home.
"If you're thinking of repairing this place," Ness said, "I wouldn't count on it."
Her witch's face contorted. "You think the damage is going to be that bad?"
"I think your 'home' is an obvious fire trap and you're out of business."
She scowled and moved away, disappearing into the crowd of neighbors.
The Salvation Army contingent showed up in a beat-up truck and an old flivver. From the truck the uniformed men and women began dispensing doughnuts and coffee to the elderly victims, and using the flivver to shuttle them to a nearby hospital. It disturbed Ness to see that the Salvation Army was better organized and more efficient than either of the public departments under his command.
Chief Grainger showed up when the fire was well under control, a second hook-and-ladder and another truck already on the scene. A sturdy blue-eyed, white-haired man of fifty-five, Grainger was in full uniform and looked pretty spiffy. Ness wished the department had a single fire truck that looked so fit for duty.
"My men have got things in hand, I see," the Chief said proudly as he approached Ness, where he stood in the middle of the street watching the fire.
"They do," Ness admitted. "On the other hand, I think the neighbors putting together a bucket brigade might have done about as well."
The two men were bathed in the shadowy flickering of smoke and flames from across the way.
Chief Grainger bristled, but kept his tone respectful as he said: "My men are dedicated public servants, Director Ness."
"I know they are. I'd like to see what they could do with equipment manufactured after the turn of the century."
Grainger shrugged, and smiled humorlessly. "We do what we can with what we're given."
Despite the truth of that, it struck Ness that Grainger was copping out. "It's going to take more than new equipment to overhaul this fire department, Chief. I've seen less than a crack team at work here tonight. More training is obviously needed. I may not be an expert about firefighting, but I know that much."
"Training takes money, too," Grainger said.
"Agreed," Ness said tersely. "And I want your detailed budget request as soon as possible. Make that part of it."
"First thing Monday soon enough?" Grainger asked.
"That would be helpful."
"You think we'll get what we ask for?"
"We'll know in a couple of months, won't we?"
The Chief nodded glumly and tipped his cap to the safety director as he left to join his men, not pitching in, just observing and cheering them on.
Ness checked his watch. It was almost midnight and he hadn't even called Eva. Damn.
He was heading for his car when the mayor's limousine pulled up, sliding a little on the glassy street, iced over from the fire fighters' hoses. His Honor, dressed in a tux, an expensive gray topcoat draped over his shoulders, stepped out of the back seat, as the police driver held the door open. Mrs. Burton remained in the car, a vague shape in a white stole. The crowd of neighbors began smiling and chattering; a few hollered hellos to the mayor, and he smiled tightly and waved back at them.
"I was on my way home from a banquet at the Hollenden," Burton explained to Ness. The mayor, in white tie and tails, was an incongruous figure in this neighborhood, standing in an ice-slick street before the burning ramshackle frame house. "I heard an old-age home had caught fire. I thought I should check it out…"
Just yesterday Ness had ordered a police radio installed in the mayor's car, at His Honor's request. He had also presented Burton with a gold Safety Department badge, which had pleased the mayor, who seemed to have a childlike enthusiasm for cops-and-robbers stuff.
"Fire's under control," Ness said.
"Fatalities?"
"Two," Ness said, and gave particulars, as many as he knew, anyway. "And thirteen more inhaled a lot of smoke. The Salvation Army's helping us get them to Mount Sinai and Glenville General."
Burton nodded gravely. He looked over at the burning house across the way. "When I heard an old-age home was on fire, I envisioned something else."
"Me, too. I wonder how many of these rattraps are passing for nursing homes."
"We'll have to find out."
"And we will. You know, we have to talk money."
The mayor snorted. "Is there any other subject?"
"The fire department's in sad shape."
Ness began giving details, but Burton interrupted, saying, "Let's get away from the smell of smoke." He gestured down the street, past the thinning crowd of gawking neighbors. "Let's walk and talk.
"You've obviously seen why my overriding concern is getting our budget past the council," the mayor said, as they strolled down the dimly lit streets lined with ramshackle frame houses.
"I can certainly see why we need money for the police department," Ness said. "Money other than the graft some cops are pocketing, that is."
"You've spent the past two days on the prowl, haven't you, Eliot?"
It was the first time Burton had called Ness by his first name.
"I spent most of the afternoon in my office. But yes, I've been out and about. Went on a sorry excuse for a bookie-joint raid this morning. Toured some of the precincts."
"What have you seen?"
Ness shrugged. "A bunch of sloppy, poorly trained cops who are low in morale, to say the least, some of whom-perhaps many of whom-are so corrupt they make a Chicago cop look like St. Francis of Assisi."
"These are rank-and-file cops you're talking about. Any sign of corruption higher up?"
"Not specifically, but I heard an interesting rumor."
He told Burton about the so-called "outside chief."
"Damn," Burton said, his voice breathy. "If such a man exists, and you could nail him…"
"You'd have your top-ranking corrupt cop for the papers, and at the same time we'd knock the pins out from under our 'department within the department.' We'd accomplish something substantial."
Burton had started to smile just thinking about it. "The city council wouldn't dare withhold your budget requests."
"I'd think not. And all I have to do is turn that rumor into a man. And find him, and arrest him, and make it stick."
"And do it by early March," Burton added, the dreamy expression gone. "Sorry you took this job?"
"No."
"You seem less enthusiastic than you were in my office Wednesday. What do you propose to do at this point?"
Ness stopped. "Well, to do anything much, I need money, now."
Burton's face tightened. "I thought you understood that we don't get any money until you produce."
"I'm not talking about money on a budget level."
"What level, then?"
Ness gestured in frustration. "I need to be able to hire men outside the department. I need to be able to bring people in when I need to."
"Men? People?"
"Investigators. Including private detectives. I know some pretty good operatives. A friend of mine in Chicago might come in handy now and then. I can't get this job done if I have to draw from the police department for my staff."
Burton sighed. "Hardly."
They began to walk again.
"These investigators would mostly work undercover," Ness said. "So we need new faces. They can't be a part of the current system. Oh, sure, I can call on rookies for occasional help-young kids who haven't lost their fire yet, who became cops for some reason other than a pension and/or a chance to tie into some graft."
"But your investigators can't be rookies."
"No. And they may come and go, like I said. I'll only need a handful, but they'll have to be paid."
The Mayor stopped and stood with his arms folded; he rocked on his feet a while and thought. "What if we could come up with something like the Secret Six, in Chicago?"
"Businesspeople, you mean?"
The two men stood in a pool of light under a street lamp.
"Merchants," the Mayor said. "Industrialists. I have friends in the Chamber of Commerce and the American Legion who are good and tired of being shaken down."
Burton had long been associated with the Legion, having been its county chairman.
Ness raised a hand. "They could have no say over my actions."
"None at all." Then, thoughtful, Burton said, "But I think perhaps I could put together a secret fund for your investigators. A slush fund of sorts. Perhaps just to tide us over until we get our budget. Assuming we do, of course. And it wouldn't be bottomless, by any means."
Ness smiled tightly. "Just so I can get my feet wet in it."
Burton's eyes narrowed; he gestured with a gently lecturing forefinger. "Any investigators you hire will draw a public salary, but they'll be listed on the city's payrolls as laborers. We'll supplement their salaries with money from our new Secret Six."
"That would be just about perfect, Your Honor."
Burton smiled a little. "Don't get your feet wet just yet. Let me see if I can get something like this off the ground, first. You, uh, haven't made Inspector Potter very happy, now, have you?"
"All I did was promote him."
"Interesting promotion."
"I hope you don't mind the way I handled it. If I could've busted him on corruption charges, you'd have had your top-ranking bent cop to feed the press. At this stage, though, all I know for sure about Potter is he plays political games. He'll be investigated, but I had to act sooner than that. I had to get him out from under me, now."
"No, no," the Mayor said, patting the air with his hands. "I wholeheartedly approve. I'm pleased. Even amused."
Ness had put the inspector in charge of a traffic survey designed to study placement of traffic lights, boulevard stop signs and other matters "materially affecting traffic." Stressing the "high priority" of dealing with traffic problems, Ness had announced to the press that the investigation needed to be done "intelligently" and there-fore the "highest technical intelligence" available in the entire department needed to be employed. Hence, the safety director had relieved Inspector Potter of his duties as chief of the Detective Bureau, and placed him at the head of the survey.
"The papers treated you kindly, where the Potter ouster is concerned," Burton commented.
They began to walk again, heading back.
"They did like it, yes."
"That's the kind of publicity we're looking for. That's the kind that can get me that slush fund you need. That's the kind that can help us get our budget past even an unwilling city council."
Ness stopped again. "You say that as if I've generated some other kind of publicity, as well."
The Mayor stopped, too. "Uh, then, I take it you didn't see the last edition of the Plain Dealer?"
"No."
"It's in the car," Burton said. "I'll show you."
They walked quickly to the limo, where Burton got the paper from the front seat and handed it to Ness. A head-line said, FORMER G-MAN'S FIRST RAID A FIZZLE
Under Wild's byline, the article went on: "Director Ness accompanied police in a raid on a barbershop and came up empty-handed. Ness found a man with earphones listening to a radio broadcast of a horse race, but there were no betting slips and no evidence that money was being wagered. The celebrated gangbuster, it would seem, may find Cleveland a tougher nut to crack than Chicago."
"That son of a bitch," Ness said, under his breath. He thrust the paper back at Burton. "That's what I get for trusting a guy who ran with Jake Lingle."
"What is the, uh… scoop? If you'll pardon the expression."
"The scoop is, I invited Wild along on this raid as a favor. I didn't organize the raid. I just went along to observe procedure, and see if a department leak would sink the thing. Which it did, of course." He pointed at the newspaper Burton held. "Wild knew that. Playing it like it was my raid that went sour is a cheap damn shot."
"We need good press relations, Eliot. Obviously."
"I'll handle this in my own way."
Burton shrugged. "That is our arrangement."
The fire across the way was still going. Flames licked up in a few windows, but the column of smoke was narrowing.
Ness forgot his departmental problems, for the moment, including that SOB Sam Wild. He looked over at the house, the basic structure of which had somehow survived the fire.
"Two men died in that house tonight," Ness said.
"A shame."
"Sure, it's a shame. But we also have to find out why."
Ness bade the Mayor goodnight and went home to see if his wife was still speaking to him.