“I’d better go and call the fire department, and get the groundsmen onto it as soon as possible.” Ronnie stood up. “Fire can spread real quickly at this time of year.”

He had scarcely left when Maria rushed in. “Fuego, senors,” she called. “Fire.”

“Yes, we know, Maria. The guys at the gate told us and we’ve already sent someone to put the men onto it.”

“No, senor. Not at the gate. Up behind the house. Big flames.”

We ran to the front door. The air was already heavy with smoke. The wind had picked up, blowing away the fog and fanning the flames. We could see the orange glow below us and hear the crackle and roar as the fire spread.

“It can’t have spread as fast as that,” Craig said. “Look. It’s already way over to the right.”

“And up above,” I shouted as I turned to see a tree go up in flames behind the house.

“He’s ringed us with fire, the bastard,” the sheriff said in a horrified voice. “How the hell are we going to get out?” He ran back to the telephone, jiggled it, then slammed it down. “The line has gone dead,” he said. “Let’s hope those fire trucks get here in time to clear a way to the gate.”

Even as we looked new bursts of flame appeared in the woodland. The ring of fire was now in place and it was coming toward us from all sides, feeding on dry grass and scrub.

“Go wake everybody up,” the sheriff said. “Everyone should be ready to leave if we get a chance.”

“I’ll go wake Algie,” Ronnie said.

“I’ll go and get my mother.” I headed in the direction of Mr. Chaplin’s suite behind the pool.

“And Maria, go and get Mrs. Goldman and her friend,” the sheriff barked.

“Francisco!” Maria wailed. “Where is my Francisco? Francisco!” And she rushed off to the back of the house, shouting for him.

“The rest of you stay where I can see you,” the sheriff barked.

I didn’t get as far as the pool. Mummy and Charlie Chaplin came running toward us, my mother’s hair still in curlers—which shows you how frightened she was. Mummy never allowed a soul to see her without makeup and perfect hair.

“What is it?” she called. “What’s going on?”

“Juan’s set some fires,” I shouted back.

“Juan? Whatever for?”

“A final act of malice, I’d say,” the sheriff responded. “Doesn’t want to face the gas chamber.”

“Juan killed Cy Goldman? I don’t believe it.” Mummy reached us, breathing heavily after having run.

“He confessed. Kinda proud of it, I’d say. Avenging his heritage, he said.”

“Cy should never have made fun of his accent,” Mummy said. “Has someone called the fire brigade? Shouldn’t someone be getting out hoses and things?”