“And I suppose you just happened to be out there,” he said. “You’re a fool for luck if ever I saw one!”
Flash tapped his holders. “Wait until you see what I have here,” he boasted. “The best pictures of my career—I hope! I’m putting ’em through the soup now.”
He ran on up the stairway.
Had his little act gone over? Flash could not be sure. If Fred Orris doubted the story he could prove it false in three minutes. But both he and Old Herm had seemed impressed.
Unlocking the photography department, Flash closed the door behind him but did not snap on the overhead lights. He entered the darkroom and turned on the green lantern by the developing tank. A glance satisfied him that the camera trap had not been disturbed. Everything was in readiness.
Slipping outside again, he carefully closed the door. Then he tiptoed across the darkened main room.
Hiding himself behind the power cabinets of the wirephoto machine, he waited.
The minutes passed slowly. Flash had begun to think that his scheme had failed when he heard a step outside the door. Instantly he became alert.
Fred Orris entered the room. He crossed to his desk and, snapping on a small lamp, rummaged in a drawer for some object which he had left there. He sat for several minutes smoking a cigarette. Finally he switched off the light, and crossed toward the darkroom.
Flash’s pulse quickened as he saw the man pause. Orris seemed to debate a moment, then with a shrug, he turned and walked out of the department.
“Now why did he hesitate?” thought Flash. “Perhaps he intended to try something and lost his nerve! It looks as if my scheme wasn’t so clever after all.”
Deciding to carry out the test for a few minutes longer, he remained in hiding. Scarcely had Orris’ footsteps died away when another sound reached his ears. Some other person was approaching from the opposite direction!
Softly, an inch at a time, the hall door swung open. Peering from behind the wirephoto cabinet, Flash could distinguish only the shadowy outline of a man.
The intruder stood motionless for a moment before gliding noiselessly toward the door of the darkroom. There he paused, and with his ear pressed to the panel, listened.
“Anyone inside?” he asked in a low tone.
Flash started, for he recognized the voice. His first impulse was to dart from his hiding place and accost the man, but he forced himself to wait. Proof he must have.
The man repeated his question. When there was no reply, he quietly pushed open the door. Flash became tense with anxiety. Suppose the fellow failed to walk against the cord? What if the flash bulb did not go off? Why was it taking so long?
Then suddenly he saw the flare of light and heard a muttered exclamation of fear. The door of the darkroom swung open and a man bolted out. But Flash was ready for him.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” he shouted. “I’ve got you this time!”
He leaped and they crashed to the floor together. Flash was strong and muscular for his age, but his opponent had arms of steel. However, he was gaining the upperhand when the room lights suddenly went on. Someone grasped him roughly by the collar and jerked him to his feet. Whirling around, he saw that the newcomer was Fred Orris, who evidently had returned upon hearing the commotion.
“Say, what’s the big idea?” the head photographer demanded. “Beating up an old man!”
Flash glanced down at the whimpering figure on the floor. Poor old Herm! But he steeled himself against a feeling of pity. The watchman was deserving of no sympathy or consideration.
“Herm is the one who stole my arson picture!” Flash accused. “He’s been trying to make trouble for me from the day I started work here, adding chemicals to the hypo tank and doing dirty little tricks to ruin my work!”
“It’s a lie!” muttered Herm, offering his gnarled hand for Fred Orris to help him to his feet. “I been workin’ here over ten years and have a long record of faithful service. He can’t hang nothin’ on me!”
“What were you doing in the darkroom?” Flash demanded.
“I went in there to see if you had left the water runnin’.”
“That excuse is getting rather threadbare, Herm.”
“You’re one of the worst offenders of the lot,” the watchman accused, glaring at Flash.
“I don’t believe I ever left a tap running in my life. But we’ll not argue that point. You say you went in the darkroom to turn off the water?”
“I not only say it! I did!”
“And you didn’t tamper with anything? The film drying machine, for instance?”
“I wasn’t even in that part of the room.”
“That’s exactly what I wanted to know,” said Flash with grim satisfaction. “We’ll see!”
Old Herm had brushed off his clothes. He now edged toward the door, but Flash grasped his arm and pulled him back.
“Oh, no, you don’t, Herm! You’ll stay right here. I may decide to turn you over to the police!”
“Evans, I consider you’ve gone entirely too far,” Fred Orris interposed coldly. “You’ve made some very serious accusations. If you fail to prove them—”
“Don’t worry, I’ll prove them. I just want to make certain Old Herm doesn’t do a disappearing act. And it might be a good idea to frisk him.”
The watchman protested angrily as his pockets were searched. Triumphantly, Flash brought to light a blackjack.
“There ain’t no crime in carryin’ that, I hope,” Old Herm defended himself. “I need a harmless weapon in case I’m attacked while makin’ my rounds.”
“A blackjack isn’t exactly a harmless weapon,” Flash returned, raising his hand to rub the lump on his head.
“What proof do you have that Herm was tampering with anything in the darkroom?” demanded Fred Orris.
“Because I deliberately set a camera trap. That story about the riot was made up.”
“Then you had no pictures?”
“Not a one. I hung some old films on the drying machine as bait and focused my camera there. The flash went off, so I ought to have something on my plate.”
“You can’t blame me,” Old Herm whimpered. “It was dark in there. I brushed against something and a flash went off. It was an accident.”
“A camera doesn’t lie,” said Fred Orris quietly. “Develop your plate, Evans. I’ll keep Herm here until you’ve finished your work.”
Flash shut himself up in the darkroom. With trembling hands he removed the plate from its holder and lowered it into the developer. Everything depended upon the picture. The sympathy of the entire office naturally would go toward Old Herm because of his age and service record. If the shot revealed nothing, the watchman’s story would be accepted in preference to his own. He must expect it.
Carefully, Flash timed the plate. As he removed it from the developer one quick glance assured him that he had his picture! It was slightly blurred but Old Herm was clearly recognizable. And he had been snapped in the act of reaching for the film on the drying machine.
“I have my proof!” Flash thought exultantly. “Old Herm can’t talk himself out of this!”
He washed the plate and as soon as he dared, opened the door and carried it out into the adjoining room.
Old Herm was still there, guarded by Fred Orris. Other newspapermen had gathered from the near-by offices, and had evidently been told the entire story. Flash fancied they gazed at him accusingly, as if to imply that he was unjust to falsely accuse an old man.
“Get anything?” asked Orris.
Flash offered the wet plate. “Here it is!”
The head photographer studied the evidence a moment in silence.
“This is proof enough for me,” he said. “Old Herm! I never would have believed it! But now that I think back, he came into the office the night your Elston fire pictures were streaked—”
“Let me see that plate,” the watchman demanded.
Orris turned toward him. With a quick swipe of his hand, Old Herm brushed the plate to the floor. It broke into a multitude of tiny pieces.
“Now where is your proof?” the watchman chuckled in triumph. “You ain’t a goin’ to hang this mess on me! No, sir! I got an alibi.”
Fred Orris stooped to pick up the broken pieces of glass from the floor. Those who stood in a circle about the watchman were staring at him with a new expression.
“Herm, I’m afraid breaking the plate won’t get you out of this,” the head photographer said coolly. “Your guilt is fairly well established in the minds of every person in this room.”
“Why did you do it, Herm?” asked Flash.
“I didn’t! It ain’t fair to try to make me lose my job.”
“You’ll be lucky if you don’t spend your declining days in jail,” Orris said sharply. “It’s a serious business, tampering with pictures, not to mention striking a man with a blackjack.”
“Herm,” spoke Flash persuasively, “I’m not particularly interested in seeing you turned over to the police. Maybe if you tell us what you did with my fire picture we’ll let you go? Did you destroy it?”
“I don’t know anything about your picture,” the watchman insisted sullenly. “I already proved to the police I wasn’t in this here part of the building at the time it was stole!”
“You were punching the time clock on the sixth floor?” recalled Flash.
“That’s right. I wouldn’t have had time to get down here even if I had been a-mind to do such a thing!”
“Suppose we see what Jeff has to say about it?”
Old Herm cringed back against the wall, and every trace of bravado left him.
“Has Jeff been talkin’ to you?” he faltered.
“You’ve been paying him money to ring the different bells for you,” Flash accused. “It came in very convenient when you wanted to run down to your room for an hour off. And it provided you with a perfect alibi the night my fire picture was stolen.”
“Wait until I lay hands on that boy,” Old Herm muttered. “The no-good sneak! Carryin’ tales behind my back!”
“Herm, what did you do with the film?”
“I ain’t a-sayin’ nothing from now on.”
“I’ll call the wagon,” said Fred Orris impatiently.
As the head photographer started for a desk telephone, the old man collapsed into a chair.
“Don’t call the police,” he pleaded. “I’ll tell you everything. Sure, I did it, and I ain’t sorry, either!”
“Why did you do it, Herm?”
“I’ll tell you,” the old man answered, his eyes glazed with hatred. “Your father was the cause of killin’ my boy.”
“Your son Dick was discharged from thePostfor taking funds which did not belong to him,” Flash corrected. “My father brought the matter to the attention of the newspaper owners in order to save an innocent man. But from what I can learn he did not even send your son to jail.”
“He done worse. Dick couldn’t get a job. He fell in with bad company. One night he was ridin’ with some boys who aimed to rob a filling station. There was some shootin’ and Dick was hit in the right lung. They took him to the hospital. I hired the best doctors, but they couldn’t do anything for him. I vowed then I’d get even with the man who was the cause of Dick’s death. I never did have my chance until you came here to work.”
Old Herm buried his head in his arms, rocking back and forth.
Flash glanced at the silent group of men in the room. Not a person there but felt sorry for the old fellow whose grief had so distorted his mind.
“Herm, we’re not going to send you to jail,” he said after a moment. “But we do want you to tell us what you did with the fire picture.”
“You mean the one I took off the editor’s desk?”
“No, it doesn’t matter about that. I mean the films you took the night I was struck over the head.”
“Several of them, wasn’t there?” the old man asked slowly.
“Yes, but the picture we want was taken at the Fenmore warehouse. If the police had it they might be able to capture the men who have been setting fires here in Brandale. Did you destroy the films, Herm?”
“No, I hid ’em.”
“Where?” Flash and Fred Orris asked the question together.
“I’ll show you.”
The old man arose and with a curious group following him, limped to the elevator, and thence to the composing room. He went directly to the supply cupboard.
“I might have guessed where the films were hidden,” Flash murmured.
Instead of opening the case, Old Herm stooped and ran his hand into the narrow crack behind it.
“Here, let me do that,” offered Flash quickly. “You might scratch the films.”
With Orris’ help he moved the heavy supply case. On the floor against the wall lay several negatives. Flash snatched them up.
Two of the Tower pictures had been ruined by exposure to light too soon after developing. The warehouse shot was in good condition, with only one small scratch which could be retouched.
“Say, this may crack the arson case wide open!” Orris exclaimed, excitement creeping into his voice. “You call the police while I make up some 8 × 10 glossies! If we move fast we may be able to catch the last edition!”
Old Herm was forgotten. Amazed at the change which had come over the head photographer, Flash rushed for a telephone. Tersely he informed the desk sergeant at police headquarters that the long missing picture had been located.
“We’ll have a man right over there,” he was promised.
Flash hastened back to the photography department. The door of the darkroom was closed, but in a moment it opened, and Fred Orris stepped out. He offered a print for the younger photographer to see.
“It’s a perfect picture,” he praised. “Look how those faces stand out. Ever see those fellows before, Flash?”
“Only at the time I snapped the picture.”
“This one on the left looks mighty familiar to me, but I can’t seem to place him.”
“That’s the man spoken of by the others as ‘H. J.’ He’s supposed to be the brains of the arson ring.”
“I know I’ve seen his picture before,” Orris repeated. “But where?”
As he was staring at the print, two men strode into the department. Flash recognized them as plainclothesmen from headquarters, Burnett and Kimball.
“Let’s have a look at that picture,” said Burnett.
Orris turned it over to him. The detective studied the print a moment, obviously startled. He indicated the man who had stood nearest the camera.
“That’s Harry J. McCormand!” he exclaimed.
“McCormand!” echoed Orris. “I was trying to think of him. But McCormand is one of Brandale’s most prominent lawyers!”
“Prominent, yes,” agreed the detective dryly. “He’s been in some shady business in his time. No one ever could pin anything on him.”
“You aiming to run this picture in the next edition?” inquired the other detective.
“That’s up to the night editor, Dewey. He’ll probably slap it on page one, because it’s hot stuff!”
“If the picture runs, McCormand may have a tip-off before we can bring him in. We’ll want it held up until we make our arrest.”
“How long will that take?” Flash interposed.
“Can’t tell. We may be able to round him up tonight. Again it may take days.”
“Better talk with Dewey,” advised Orris.
He and Flash led the two detectives to the desk of the night editor. When the situation was fully explained to him, Dan Dewey made his decision instantly.
“We’ll hold out the picture providing you give our paper an exclusive on the story when it finally breaks.”
“Fair enough,” agreed Burnett. “We’ll take a few men and go out to McCormand’s house right away. Send your photographers along if you like.”
“Evans, you and Orris!” said Dewey. Then he hesitated, being fully aware of the antagonism which existed between the two men. He amended: “Or maybe I can locate Ralston—”
“I’ll take Orris if it’s all the same to you,” spoke Flash.
Dan Dewey nodded in relief. “Good!” he approved. “McCormand’s arrest will shock the town. Bring back some real pictures or I’ll fire you both!”
Orris’ lips curled into a faint suggestion of a smile.
“Come on, Flash,” he said. “Let’s go!”
The night was one long to be remembered. In the police car, Flash and Fred Orris rode to the McCormand home on Aldingham Drive. There they learned from a maid that the man they sought was attending a late business conference at his downtown office.
Back-tracking, the police car presently drew up before a white stone building not far from theBrandale Ledger. Nearly all of the windows were dark, but lights glowed in one of the offices on the fourth floor.
The building directory provided information that McCormand occupied Room 407. From the elevator man, police learned that the lawyer had entered the building shortly after nine o’clock and had not been seen leaving.
Detective Burnett was assigned to post himself on the fire escape directly opposite Room 407, and the two photographers chose to accompany him. Gaining access to it from the third floor, they moved noiselessly to the window.
Inside they could see McCormand at his desk, talking with two other men. One of them Flash instantly recognized as the same person who had been involved in the Fenmore warehouse affair.
A loud knock came on the office door. McCormand sprang to his feet.
“Who’s there?” he called sharply.
“Open up or we’ll break down the door!” came the order.
McCormand jerked his head toward the window. His two companions made a dive for the fire escape, stepping directly into the arms of the waiting detective. Flash and Orris took pictures simultaneously.
The detective backed his prisoners into the office again, keeping them covered with his revolver.
“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” demanded McCormand wrathfully. “I demand an explanation.”
“You’ll get it,” said Burnett coolly.
Flash unlocked the door and let the other detective into the room. Then he deftly inserted another holder in his camera, and cocked the lever of the shutter. As Detective Kimball told McCormand he was under arrest, he pulled the slide and shot his next picture.
Protesting angrily, the lawyer and his companions were hustled downstairs to the waiting police car. Flash and Orris both obtained action shots of McCormand trying to free himself from the grasp of two detectives.
“Not bad,” chuckled Orris as they stood watching the car drive away.
“We haven’t any time to waste,” said Flash abruptly. “If we move fast we still have a chance to make that last edition.”
The words spurred Orris to action. Running nearly all of the distance to theLedgerbuilding, they related their story of the capture in a few terse sentences.
“We’ll hold the edition ten minutes,” Dan Dewey decided. “Get busy!”
Flash and Orris rushed their pictures through in record time, making prints from wet negatives. Not until each picture had been captioned and sent to the photo-engraving department did they allow themselves a moment to relax.
“What a night!” said Flash, sinking into a chair. “Wonder what became of Old Herm?”
Orris shrugged in his characteristic way.
“Who cares? He won’t make you any more trouble. I imagine he’ll never show up at theLedgeragain after what happened. But if he should be dumb enough to try to keep his job, I’ll drop a hint in the editor’s ear.”
“We’ve probably seen the last of Old Herm,” Flash agreed. “From now on things should roll a lot smoother for me.”
There was an awkward pause. Orris avoided looking directly at Flash as he said:
“I owe you an apology. The truth is, I didn’t like you very well when you first started work here. I thought you were a cocky kid who needed to be put in his place.”
“Guess you weren’t far wrong at that.”
“Yes, I was,” Orris denied. “You had the stuff even if it took me a long while to recognize it. When you had so much trouble with your pictures, streaking and losing them, I figured you were inexperienced.”
“I did slip up on the fight pictures, Fred. The other mistakes were the result of Old Herm’s work.”
“You have what it takes,” Orris resumed. “After being out with you tonight I know your pictures aren’t a matter of accident. You’re a good photographer.”
“Thanks,” returned Flash. Coming from Orris, the praise was indeed high. He added: “But I still have plenty to learn.”
He bore the head photographer no grudge. From now on he would understand him much better. Orris never would be as friendly or sociable as Joe Wells and the other photographers, but he knew his work. One could learn a great deal from him.
Flash felt worn out from the night’s work. However, before starting home, he printed up the one good Tower picture and dropped it on the editor’s desk, without caring whether or not it ever was used. As he picked up his hat to leave the office, Orris asked in surprise:
“Aren’t you waiting for the paper to come out? It shouldn’t be more than a minute or two now.”
“No, I’m too tired,” Flash yawned. “I’m going home and hit the hay.”
“You might get a by-line,” Orris hinted. “And you know what that means around here?”
“No, what?”
“Usually a raise.”
“I could do with one,” grinned Flash. “Well, I think I’ll bear the suspense until morning.”
“I’m sticking around for a few minutes longer,” Orris replied. “See you tomorrow.”
Flash left the building and, after a wait of ten minutes at the corner, caught his bus home. Wearily he sagged into the first empty seat. It had been a big night, but a satisfying one. Due to his work and the recovery of the warehouse picture, the arson ring would be entirely cleaned up. He might be called to testify against McCormand, but the man’s conviction was practically assured.
“And the darkroom mystery is solved, too,” he chuckled. “From now on I’ll have clear sailing.”
The bus presently stopped at a corner. A well-dressed man of middle age came into the car, settling himself in the vacant seat beside the young photographer. He opened his paper to read.
Turning his head slightly, Flash saw that the man had a copy of theLedger, the last edition which news-boys were just starting to cry. Bold headlines told of McCormand’s arrest, and a picture had been spread over four columns.
Flash bent nearer. The picture was the one he had taken of McCormand and the two other men at Fenmore’s warehouse. Beneath it was a tiny caption, “by staff photographer, Jimmy Evans.”
“Well, I see they’ve captured the big-shot behind the arson ring,” remarked the passenger conversationally. “Turns out to be H. J. McCormand!”
Flash smiled and nodded.
“Interesting picture, too,” the man went on. “These newspaper photographers always seem to be on the wrong spot at the right time. But this picture takes the prize. I wonder how he ever got it?”
“If you ask me,” said Flash with a sheepish grin, “the fellow was a fool for luck. He must have been born with a silver horseshoe around his neck!”
THE END
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