The head waiter came over to where Flash stood, “How many in your party, sir?”
“No party,” said Flash, tapping his camera case. “I’m just looking over the situation.”
“Oh, a photographer,” the waiter murmured. “I suppose Mr. Hodges sent you to take publicity pictures?”
The question gave Flash a sudden idea.
“May I set up my tripod wherever I like?” he asked.
“Yes, anywhere. Only try to keep the main aisle clear. Mr. Hodges will expect you to focus so that our new decorations will show up to advantage.”
Flash nodded, but actually he had no intention of wasting film upon the new murals of the Green Room.
He followed the head waiter into the café, taking care not to glance toward the three strangers. The room quieted down as heads turned and all eyes focused curiously upon him. In his most professional manner, Flash set up his tripod and trained the lens of his camera toward the orchestra.
All the while, out of the corner of his eye, he was estimating the distance to the window table. He saw that the three men were hurrying through their dinners, watching him alertly. He would need to act quickly if he obtained the picture he was after.
Suddenly pretending to change his mind, he turned the camera so that it focused directly upon the three men.
As the shutter clicked one of the diners ducked his head. The other two raised napkins in front of their faces. Before Flash could change holders they arose, and with angry glances directed at him, dropped a bill on the table and left.
His interest deepening, Flash packed his camera and followed. He reached the corridor in time to see the three men enter the elevator. Taking to the stairs, he raced down several flights, and there caught another elevator which was descending.
The three men had crossed the lobby to the main entrance. Flash stood by the cigar stand until he saw them enter a taxi. He then ran out and, signaling the next one in line, leaped aboard.
“Follow that checkered cab ahead,” he instructed.
Sinking back against the seat, Flash recaptured his breath. While he still was far from certain that one of the men was the same fellow he had chased from the Davis Furniture store, he felt convinced that the three in the cab ahead had a special fear of being photographed. And they were well versed in the method of avoiding having their pictures taken. His snaps would be worthless for purposes of identification.
The checkered cab weaved leisurely through downtown traffic with the occupants apparently unaware they were being trailed. Presently the car turned into the park, winding in and out among the curving streets, and then duplicating its route.
“What do you think?” Flash asked his driver. “Are they wise to the fact that we’re following?”
“Looks to me as if they’re only killing time,” the cabman answered. “Plenty of folks do that if they have an appointment.”
“We’ll trail them for awhile longer,” Flash decided. “Drop farther back.”
He began to watch the meter anxiously. Figures ticked up on the dial with an alarming speed. Flash examined the money in his wallet. He had a little over seven dollars, but it must last him to the end of the week.
“Guess you may as well let me out here,” he said at last. “This sport is getting too expensive for me.”
The cab drew up at the curb, and the one ahead disappeared among the trees. Flash paid his bill and started afoot through the park, intending to return to theLedgeroffice. Ruefully, he reflected that a sizeable amount of his money was gone, and he had learned nothing.
“Probably my hunch was a crazy one anyway,” he thought. “A man isn’t necessarily a crook because he doesn’t like to have his picture taken.”
As Flash drew near the park entrance, he was startled to have the same checkered cab roll past him.
For a fleeting instant he thought that he might become the target of a brutal attack. Then he realized the three passengers had not seen him. Darkness and the deep shadow of an arching maple tree protected him completely.
The checkered cab swung out of the park, turning left into the busy business street. Immediately it picked up speed.
“It looks as if they’re really going somewhere now,” thought Flash. “Probably they were only waiting for me to give up the chase.”
The temptation to follow once more was too great to resist. Hurrying to the main thoroughfare, he glanced up and down for another taxi. He sighted one drifting by on the opposite side of the street, and hailed it.
The driver made a quick turn, pulling up beside him.
“Follow that checkered cab,” Flash ordered, slamming the door. “Keep well back if it slows down.”
The taxi ahead did not slacken speed. On the contrary, Flash and his driver lost sight of it several times and were hard pressed to remain in the race. The trail led through downtown Brandale toward the waterfront.
Before many minutes the two cabs were twisting down a narrow street which Flash recognized as the site of the Fenmore Warehouse. In passing the darkened building, the taxi ahead slackened speed somewhat. Whether or not this action was deliberate, he could not determine.
The car cruised past the building. Three blocks farther on, it drew up at a street corner. Two of the men alighted, while the third passenger rode away in the cab.
Telling his own driver to pull up farther down the street, Flash climbed out. His funds had been whittled again, and seemingly to no purpose. He was disgusted.
The two men had turned and were walking swiftly down the deserted street, their backs to the photographer. As he watched, his interest kindled. One of the men carried a small black case.
“Wonder where that came from?” he mused. “I know they didn’t have it when they left the café. They may have picked it up from the hotel check room.”
The two men were heading in the direction of the Fenmore Warehouse, a significant fact which immediately registered upon Flash. Could it be that the third member of the party had driven past the building for the deliberate purpose of pointing it out to his companions? He had not forgotten the threats made against Mr. Fenmore, or the man’s belief that an attempt would be made to damage his warehouse.
Flash waited until the two men had turned the corner beyond the warehouse, before following them. He now believed they were returning to the building. He was certain of it when the men, after glancing carefully about, slipped down an alley leading to the rear of the warehouse.
“They’re up to something!” thought Flash, his pulse stepping up a pace.
He glanced about for a policeman. None was in sight. Evidently the man assigned to guard the warehouse had been withdrawn or else had taken himself elsewhere.
Stealthily, Flash entered the dark alley, keeping well out of the glare of a street lamp. Crouching in the angle of a building, he watched and waited.
The two men walked directly to a rear door of the warehouse. With no hesitation or delay they unlocked it with a key and entered.
Flash was puzzled.
“Maybe those fellows have a right to be here,” he thought. “They act that way. And they have a key.”
He moved closer, watching for lights to be turned on inside the warehouse. The building remained dark. Through a dirt-caked basement window, Flash caught the gleam of a flashlight. Instantly his suspicions took definite form. The two men had no business in the warehouse! They were bent upon mischief!
Turning, Flash darted back to the entrance of the alley. The street was deserted both of cars and people. There was no sign of either a police officer or a watchman.
“If I take time to go for help those fellows may get away!” he reasoned. “This job is up to me!”
He returned to the rear of the warehouse. Quietly opening the door, he listened a moment and then stepped into the dark interior.
From the direction of the basement, Flash could hear a scraping noise as if a large box were being dragged across the cement floor. A low murmur of voices likewise reached him, but he was too far away to distinguish what was being said.
Daringly, he tiptoed along the dark corridor until he came to a stairway. He groped his way cautiously down. A board creaked beneath his weight.
Flash paused, listening anxiously. In the stillness of the empty warehouse the sound had seemed to his over-sensitive ears as loud as an explosion. But when the low murmur of voices continued without interruption, he breathed freely again.
He reached the bottom of the steps. A dim light which cast weird shadows on the cement walls, led him toward the furnace room. Flash could hear the voices plainly now, and understand most of what was being said.
“How about the watchman, Al? Any danger he’ll walk in on us?”
The other man laughed carelessly.
“Listen, don’t raise a sweat worrying about that. H. J. himself is taking care of him.”
“Didn’t know the big boss ever dirtied his gloves on these jobs.”
“He doesn’t as a rule. For some reason he’s taken a special interest in seeing that Fenmore gets his without any slip. If the old warehouse goes up in smoke, the other boys will take warning and fall into line.”
“Speaking of slips, Al, you certainly muffed that Davis job.”
“Shut up, will you!” the other growled. “I’m sick of hearing about that! How was I to know the old man slept by the furnace?”
Flash had reached the doorway. Peering inside he saw two men standing with their backs toward him. From the conversation he knew that the one who had been called Al was none other than Judd Slater, a self-termed representative of the North Brandale Insurance Company—the same man he had chased some nights previously.
One glance disclosed that the warehouse was being fired. The men had connected up two electric irons which they placed in a box of excelsior. It was a simple and effective device. The irons would slowly heat, giving the pair ample time to make their getaway without directing suspicion to themselves. Later, in the early hours of the morning, the fire would break out.
Unexpectedly, Flash heard footsteps on the stairway. He held himself rigid, listening. The two men in the furnace room likewise were aware of the sound. Neither spoke but their attitude was one of tenseness.
From the stairway came a low whistle. Immediately the pair relaxed and one of the men responded with a similar signal.
Flash barely had time to crouch back against a wall before a third man passed directly in front of him to stand silhouetted in the doorway. As the flashlight beam played full upon him for a moment, the young photographer saw a bulky, expensively dressed man of middle age who might have been taken for a substantial business person. The features of his face could not be discerned, and in a minute he moved beyond view.
“If it isn’t H. J. himself!” exclaimed one of the men from the furnace room. “You sure gave us a scare!”
“Yeah, we thought you might be the watchman!” added the other.
“Andy is well taken care of,” the newcomer said briefly. “He had a weakness for a bottle. I left him with two. How are you doing here?”
“We’re through.”
“Let’s have a look. We can’t afford any mistakes this time.”
Flash’s mind worked with lightning-like rapidity. In another minute or two the men would leave the warehouse and all trace of them might be lost.
It would be foolhardy, he knew, to try to battle with three armed assailants. True, he might steal back upstairs and lock the basement door, but such tactics would not hold the men long. They easily could break a basement or upstairs window and make a get-away before he could bring help. In that event, there would be no real evidence against them.
Flash was quite sure he never could give the police a useful description of the men. In the semi-dark basement room he was unable to obtain a clear view of their faces. If only he dared set off a flash and take a picture! Provided with a good photograph of the acknowledged “higher up,” the police should be able to trace the man and perhaps break up the entire arson ring.
“This is my big chance,” he thought tensely. “I only hope I don’t mess it up!”
Flash knew exactly what he must do. He would take his flash gun picture and then make a dive for the stairway.
Everything depended upon the speed with which he worked. Providing he moved fast enough, he still could lock the men into the building. But should they escape he would have incriminating evidence. His picture would be useful both to the police and theLedger!
Stealing back to the open doorway, Flash hastily adjusted his camera and stood ready to set off the gun.
“Glad I tested the synchronizing mechanism this afternoon,” he thought.
His heart was pounding. He waited a moment to be certain that his hand was perfectly steady. The slightest tremble would ruin the picture. In another moment he had gained complete control of his nerves. Steeling himself, he said in a loud, curt voice:
“Hands up!”
As he had anticipated, the command electrified the three men. They whirled to face the camera.
Flash pressed the trigger. The shutter clicked and the flash went off. He had his picture!
A gun roared heavily and a bullet whined past his head and crunched into the wall.
Hugging his camera close against his body, Flash ducked and ran. The beam of a flashlight followed his course and singled him out.
“Get him!” a voice snarled. “And that picture!”
Flash dodged out of the circle of light just as another bullet sang past him.
He glanced back over his shoulder and plunged squarely against a thick coil of rope lying in his path. Thrown off balance, he tried frantically to keep from falling, but could not save himself.
Down he crashed on the cement. Even as he fell, Flash’s mind kept working. He couldn’t hope to save himself now, but he might save his picture!
Directly in front and a few feet above him was a cellar window unprotected by grating. A reflection from an alley light made it an easy target.
Scrambling to his feet, Flash took aim. With all his strength he hurled the camera straight at the window.
There was a resounding crash. The camera smashed the glass and sailed into the alley.
Flash had no chance to get away. A heavy hand grasped his coat. Whirling, he tackled his assailant just below the knees, and they went rolling over the floor in a threshing, writhing tangle of arms and legs.
The butt end of a revolver slammed against Flash’s skull. Blood trickled down across his eyelids. His hold on his assailant’s knees loosened.
As if from a great distance he heard a harsh voice order:
“Come on! Come on! We’ve got to get out of here!”
And then Flash became aware of another sound—the opening of an upstairs door, then footsteps treading on the landing. A powerful flashlight beam played over the wall.
Flash felt the muzzle of a gun pressing hard into his ribs.
“Keep quiet!” he was advised in a whisper.
From above came a gruff shout: “Hallo, down there!”
Grasping the revolver muzzle in one hand and the man’s wrist in the other, Flash gave a violent twist and shouted for help. The gun boomed again, then clattered to the cement. The bullet, sharply deflected, hummed through the shattered window, while Flash and his attacker groped for the weapon.
Suddenly the basement room was flooded with light.
“Reach!” commanded a gruff voice from the door.
Flash saw the revolver lying almost at his finger tips. He grabbed it and, swinging about, jammed it into the chest of the man who had attacked him, pinning him to the floor.
From across the room another gun belched flame, and there was answering fire from the doorway. Then the two men who were free made a concerted dash for the stairs. The lights went out.
Flash heard two more shots, a grunt of pain, running feet on the stairway, and finally the slamming of an outside door.
In a moment the light came on again. A policeman staggered into the room. His right wrist was hanging limp, but with his other hand he flipped a pair of steel bracelets from his pocket and snapped them on the wrists of the man Flash guarded.
“The others got away?” the photographer gasped.
“Yeah, but I winged one of them. Who are you, kid?”
“Evans, a photographer for theLedger.”
“I came near letting you have it when you reached for that gun,” said the policeman. “Now who is this hombre?”
Tersely Flash told all that had happened, identifying the prisoner as Judd Slater, the same man who was thought to have set the Sam Davis fire.
“We may be able to pick up those other two a little later,” the policeman commented. “We don’t want tough shot here to get lonesome. He might miss his little playmates.”
He jerked the prisoner’s arm roughly and half spun him around.
“You won’t be so hard after we’ve worked on you awhile at headquarters. We’ve softened up tougher cookies than you.”
Flash went into the adjoining room and detached the electric irons. He then started away, being anxious to learn if the two escaping men had gained possession of his camera and exposed film.
“Where are you going, son?” the officer demanded.
Flash explained briefly about the picture he had taken.
“All right,” nodded the policeman. “We can use that picture. Go ahead and get it.”
Flash had reached the door when the officer called after him:
“Say, can you call up headquarters for me while I watch this fellow? My wounded arm is quite stiff.”
“What shall I say?”
“Tell them to send the wagon. Give them a description of those two men who got away if you can. And move fast!”
Hurrying to the street, Flash cast a quick glance about the alley. No one was in sight. He groped for a minute beneath the shattered window. Failing to find the camera, he was fearful that the two men had taken it.
Wasting no more time, he ran across the street to a cigar store and there telephoned the nearest police station. Tersely he made his report. The desk sergeant assured him the wagon would reach the warehouse within five minutes, while the district would be bottles up in an attempt to capture the wounded man and his companion.
Returning to the warehouse, Flash resumed his search for the missing camera although he had scant hope of finding it. He struck a match. By its flare he saw the battered case lying against a wall on the opposite side of the alley. It surprised him that he had been able to hurl it so far.
He snatched up the camera. The film holder was still there, and seemingly in good condition.
“Boy! I hope I’ve got something!” he purred to himself.
Tucking the camera under his arm, he hastened back to the basement.
“I phoned headquarters,” he told the policeman. “The wagon will be here in a minute or two.”
“Good! I see you found your camera.”
“It doesn’t look to be very much damaged. And the plate holder is okay!”
“That’s fine,” said the policeman. “If you snapped those two missing fellows we ought to run them in without much trouble. You ride along to headquarters with me.”
“But I took the picture for my newspaper,” Flash protested. “After all, I’m working for theLedger, not the city.”
“So what?”
“This is a big story. I want to get my film to the paper right away. It will mean a lot to me, officer.”
“But not half as much as it will to the law, son. You’ll have to come along.”
Flash was taken back by this development. His film might be tied up for hours or even days by the police. Yes, there would be a big story in theLedgerabout the arson plot, but it looked very much as if it would not be illustrated by any art from Flash Evans’ camera.
Then he thought of a plan.
“Listen,” he pleaded, “why not let me take the film to theLedgeroffice? I’ll have the picture developed and printed before they even know I’ve taken one at headquarters. I’ll run off some extra prints and you can send a man to pick them up. That way, we both win.”
The officer grinned good-naturedly.
“Maybe I shouldn’t do it,” he said, “but I will. You run along and I’ll have a man over there in thirty minutes.”
No taxi cab was in sight as Flash reached the street. He ran three blocks and finally hailed one.
“Drop me off at the rear entrance of theLedger,” he ordered the driver.
He leaped out as the cab presently stopped. Tossing a handful of change into the driver’s hand, he ran into the building. In the doorway he collided full tilt with Old Herm.
“Hi, young man, where’s the fire?”
“Big story!” Flash returned as he pressed the elevator button. “I have a corking picture! If only it turns out—and I think it will! Say, has that fellow gone to sleep?”
Unwilling to wait for the cage to descend, he took the stairs two at a time.
Pausing in the news room only long enough to tell the night editor what he had, Flash went on down the corridor to the photography department. He knewhe had stirred up plenty of excitement behind him. The arson story was important and ought to be given a prominent play on page one. If the police should capture the two missing men, especially the mysterious ‘H. J.’ who seemed to be the brains of the ring, it would mean the biggest picture break since he had started work on theLedger!
“I hope the film is okay,” he thought uneasily. “A lot depends on it.”
Into Flash’s mind came a dread which he could not have expressed in words. It was exactly as if he had received an intuitive warning. He had lost several big pictures, seemingly through no fault of his own. Something might happen this time.
“I’ll not take any chances,” he told himself. “Until my picture is out of the darkroom and actually in the hands of the editor, I’ll stay with it! There will be no slip-up.”
The photographic department was dark and deserted. Flash did not bother to turn on the lights. Entering the darkroom, he closed the door.
Unwilling to take any chance by using old developer or hypo, he mixed fresh chemicals before switching on the green light and removing his precious film from the holder.
Carefully, to avoid the slightest scratch, he lowered it into the tank and kept the water moving. In an agony of hope and suspense he watched as a faint image began to appear on the negative. He had something, but would it turn out to be only a blur?
“Coming up clear and fast!” he exulted, a moment later. “It’s going to be a beaut!”
The faces of the three men all had been turned squarely toward the camera. And the focus was perfect.
Flash watched the film closely, removing it from the developer at exactly the right instant. He saw it through the hypo tank, and gave it a longer washing than usual.
“A perfect negative!” he congratulated himself in a glow of pride. “Not a streak or a scratch! Won’t even need to touch it up.”
While the film was drying Flash developed the picture he had taken in the restaurant. For purposes of identification it was worthless, but he did not need it now. His picture taken in the basement of the Fenmore warehouse should be sufficient to tag the three men.
As an afterthought, Flash decided to develop the negatives of the Tower building. They turned out surprisingly well.
“This seems to be my big night,” he chuckled.
Nevertheless, the fine shots, which an hour before would have thrilled him, now brought only a mild feeling of pleasure. From an artistic standpoint the pictures could not be improved, but they lacked news value. The arson shot was the one which would ring the bell with Riley and Dan Dewey. And it might bring about the capture of the wanted men.
Behind Flash a latch clicked ever so softly. Deeply engrossed in his work, the young photographer failed to hear the sound. Nor did he notice that the door had opened a tiny crack, for the photographic department was as dark as the room in which he stood.
Oblivious of danger, he bent over the tanks, shifting his film to the water. His head throbbed from the cut he had received. But until this moment he scarcely had been aware of any discomfort. Now that his work was finished, he thought he would bathe the wound and clean himself up a bit.
Behind him, a board creaked. Every muscle taut, Flash whirled to see a dark figure looming in the doorway.
“Who is it?” he demanded sharply. “That you, Wells?”
There was no answer, but the man lunged at him. Flash threw up his hands to ward off the blow. He acted an instant too late. A heavy, blunt object crashed down on his head.
With a low moan of pain he sagged to the floor and knew no more.
Flash opened his eyes to the glare of an unshaded electric light. Someone was sponging his head with a damp cloth. Struggling to a sitting posture, he brushed the back of his hand against his throbbing head.
“My pictures!”
“Take it easy,” cautioned a quiet voice.
The whirling room righted itself before his eyes, and Flash saw Joe Wells kneeling on the floor beside him. He was still in the darkroom but the overhead light had been turned on.
“What hit me?” he mumbled. “It wasn’t you, Joe?”
“Hardly. I came in here a minute ago and found you out cold. Looks to me as if you’ve been slugged with a blackjack!”
Aided by the photographer, Flash struggled unsteadily to his feet.
“That’s a nasty wound on your forehead,” Wells said anxiously. “What happened?”
“Someone attacked me in the dark,” Flash returned briefly. “But the cut came from another fight.”
Staggering to the film drier, he took one glance and groaned.
“I knew it! They’re gone!”
“Pictures you were developing?”
Flash felt actually sick. He sagged into a chair, staring at the wall.
“Snap out of it, kid,” Joe advised kindly. “Tell me what it’s all about and maybe I can help you.”
Flash shook his head.
“Thanks, Joe, but no one ever will be able to get that picture back. The fellow who slugged me must have come here with the deliberate purpose of stealing it!”
“What picture are you talking about?”
Flash related in a halting voice everything which had occurred that evening. The older photographer listened with growing astonishment.
“You’re both the luckiest and unluckiest chap I ever met!” he exclaimed. “To think of losing a picture like that!”
“It wasn’t bad luck,” Flash said shortly.
“What do you call it?”
“Someone has been laying for me ever since I started work at theLedger!”
“A number of queer things have happened to your pictures,” Wells replied mildly. “It may have been accidental—”
“And do you call this an accident tonight?” Flash demanded.
“No, I’m satisfied you didn’t slug yourself,” Wells responded, unruffled. “But I fail to see that the theft of your picture has anything to do with those other mishaps.”
“I figured something like this might happen, Joe. I was especially cautious. Mixed fresh chemicals. Stayed with my pictures every minute. What I didn’t expect was a personal attack!”
“You think someone who works in the building did the trick?”
“Yes, I do!”
“Maybe you’re right,” Wells said, “but I doubt it. How many persons knew you had the picture?”
“Not many. Old Herm. And I spread the news in the other room.”
“How about those two members of the arson gang who made their get-away? They knew you had the picture?”
“Naturally. They nearly did me in for taking it! If the sound of gunfire hadn’t brought a policeman, they probably would have finished me.”
“All right, those birds knew you had the picture. And they reasoned that if the police ever saw it, their capture would be certain. So they waylaid you here—”
“Hold on,” interrupted Flash, “they didn’t know I was a newspaper photographer or that I worked at theLedger.”
“Couldn’t you have been followed here?”
“Yes,” Flash admitted reluctantly, “but I doubt if I was. Those fellows knew the police would be on their trail in a very short while. They were hard pressed to get away.”
“You didn’t see the man who struck you, I suppose?”
“Only an indistinct outline. Funny thing, for a minute I thought it was you.”
Wells glanced hard at Flash.
“That doesn’t sound very funny to me,” he said. “So you think I did it?”
“No, of course not,” Flash denied, smiling. “But the man did seem about your height. Wonder how long I was knocked out?”
Joe Wells looked at his watch.
“It’s eleven forty-five now.”
“Then I couldn’t have been unconscious very many minutes before you reached me. Joe, you didn’t see anyone around here, did you?”
Wells hesitated and then answered: “Only members of the regular staff.”
Flash rose to his feet and went over to examine the water tank. He swirled his hand deep into it without finding a film rack.
“My Tower pictures are gone, too,” he announced. “Not that I care about them. Whoever the fellow was, he made a clean sweep of everything. And look at that!”
Flash pointed to a tiny puddle of water beneath the tank which obviously had been made when the films were removed. A line of drops led through the doorway of the darkroom to the outside hall.
The two photographers followed the trail a few steps toward the back stairway, and then lost it.
“Let’s ask Old Herm and the elevator man if they’ve seen anyone leaving the building,” Wells proposed.
“All right,” Flash agreed. “But it won’t do any good.”
The passenger elevator did not operate after eleven o’clock. They located the man who handled the freight cage. He told them he had seen no strangers in the building during the past hour.
“Who has come down in the last ten minutes?” Flash inquired.
“No one—that is, not in the elevator. I saw a photographer take the stairway. He rung for me and then didn’t wait.”
“A photographer!” Flash exclaimed. “Who do you mean?”
“I don’t know his last name. I’ve heard him called Fred.”
“Fred Orris!” Flash completed, and his voice was hard.
“Now don’t jump to conclusions,” Wells broke in quickly. “I was talking to Orris myself as I came into the building.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“No. I know how you feel about him, but you’re wrong this time.”
Flash turned and entered the elevator. “Third floor,” he said briefly.
Wells followed him into the cage. “Where’s Herm?” he asked the elevator man.
“Haven’t seen him,” was the reply. “He’s probably around somewhere punchin’ bells. I wish I had a soft job like that.”
“Let’s see if we can find Old Herm,” Wells suggested, turning to Flash.
“No use. I think I’ll get my hat and go home.”
Wells did not speak until the two had been let off at the third floor.
“I know what you’re thinking, Flash,” he said. “But you have Orris all wrong. He’s surly, and there’s no denying he’s been unpleasant to you, but he’s not the type to hit a man with a blackjack or steal films!”
“Did I accuse him?” countered Flash.
“No, not in words.”
“Let’s skip it, then. The pictures are gone, and that’s all that counts. I’ll have some fancy explaining to do, especially to the police.”
Flash was irritated because his friend deliberately had withheld information from him. But he felt duly grateful when Wells went with him to the night editor, supporting his story as to what had happened in the darkroom.
The ordeal, while embarrassing, was not as hard a one as he had anticipated. Although disappointment over the loss of the picture was keen, Wells’ theory that Flash had been attacked by a member of the arson ring, received credence. And he could not be blamed for having fallen down upon an assignment since the work had been extra.
It was not so easy to explain to the police officer who came later for the promised picture. Flash was given to understand that he had thwarted justice, and that the policeman who had permitted him to keep the film very likely would be reprimanded. He was asked a number of sharp questions. At first, the officer seemed rather suspicious, and after that, plainly disgusted.
“Your picture would have been of great value to us,” he told Flash curtly. “Both of the men escaped.”
“How about the man you did capture? Won’t he talk?”
“He hasn’t yet.”
“There was a building watchman who saw one of the men—”
“Andy Simpson,” the officer supplied. “We haven’t been able to locate him yet. What can you tell me about those two fellows?”
“Not very much,” Flash confessed. “I only gained a general impression. The film was a dandy, though. If I had that—”
“Would you be able to identify either of the men from another picture?” the officer cut in.
“I doubt it,” Flash admitted lamely. “I never was very good at noticing details.”
He described the men as best he could and then the policeman said abruptly:
“Let’s have a look at the darkroom where you were attacked.”
Flash opened the door and switched on the lights.
The policeman glanced about with the unhurried gaze of one who neglected no details, and photographed it indelibly in his mind.
“Anyone been in here since you were struck?” he questioned.
“Joe Wells and the night editor. Possibly a few of the reporters.”
The officer stooped and picked up an object lying on the floor. It was a door key.
“Yours?” he asked, showing it to Flash.
“Why, no!”
“But you recognize it?”
“Well, it looks like one of the keys from Old Herm’s ring.”
“Old Herm?”
“The night watchman.”
“Comes in here often, does he?”
“Once in awhile, I suppose.”
“Let’s have a talk with the fellow,” the officer said. “What can you tell me about him?”
“He’s rather queer, but harmless,” answered Flash. “It couldn’t have been Old Herm who struck me.”
Even as he spoke, the thought assailed him that actually he knew almost nothing about the watchman.
“Maybe not,” commented the policeman dryly, “but in this business you learn not to have any set ideas about the guilty fellow. Give the evidence a chance to speak for itself!”
Flash silently followed the officer down the hallway to the elevator. The pointed remark about not having set ideas struck home, making him suddenly conscious that his attitude had been anything but unbiased. Hadn’t he been so certain Fred Orris was responsible for the theft that he refused to consider any other possibility?
Now that he reflected, he realized that the watchman had seemed unusually interested in his work. As he thought back, it came to him that when they had been together, he usually was the one to do most of the talking. Old Herm asked many questions and supplied few answers.
“But it couldn’t have been Herm,” he repeated to himself. “He’s only a foolish old cod, and he’s always seemed to like me.”
They presently located the watchman on the fifth floor. As Old Herm saw the police officer striding toward him, he started perceptibly.
“Lookin’ for me?” he inquired uneasily.
“You are the night watchman here?” asked the policeman, gazing steadily at him.
“That’s right. Anything the matter?”
“Nothing to be skittish about,” the officer said. “All we want is to see how good you are at answering questions.”
“Answerin’ questions!” the old fellow echoed timidly. “I ain’t done nothin’, sir.”
“You were in the building at eleven-thirty tonight?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” Old Herm replied. “I’m always here then. It’s my job.”
“What part of the building?”
“On the sixth floor, sir. I punch a clock there every night at eleven-thirty.”
“And you punched it tonight?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I’ve never missed in five years.”
“Any one see you do it?”
“Maybe so and maybe not so,” Old Herm answered vaguely. “If anyone saw me, I didn’t see them.”
While the old fellow’s voice and face was innocence itself, it seemed rather strange to Flash that he did not ask the officer why he was being questioned. It was barely possible, he thought, that Old Herm knew the reason, yet the chances were against his having talked with anyone about the theft and attack.