The officer studied the watchman for a moment. Then he took the key which had been found in the darkroom and held it before Old Herm’s eyes.
“Ever see that before?”
“Why, ah, yes, I have,” the watchman stammered.
“Yours isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Old Herm admitted readily, “it’s the key to the janitor’s supply room in the basement.”
“We didn’t find it in the basement. We picked it up in the photography department. Have you been in there tonight?”
“Yes, sir, I was. I drop in there on my rounds when the door’s open. You see, the photographers are careless about letting faucets run. It’s no fun mopping up after ’em.”
“At what hour were you there tonight?”
“Just a bit after 10:30. That’s when I ring the time clock in the department.”
So far, Old Herm’s account of his whereabouts left no ground for suspicion. Flash recalled that at ten-thirty he had not yet reached theLedgerBuilding. According to the clock in the window of the advertising department, it had been eleven-twenty when he arrived and met the watchman in the lower vestibule. Evidently the old fellow had gone directly to the sixth floor to ring the eleven-thirty time bell.
“The record will show whether or not he did,” Flash thought. “If he’s telling the truth, he couldn’t have been the person who attacked me. With his bad leg it would have taken him at least five minutes to get from the sixth floor to the photographic department. And it was only eleven-forty when Joe Wells found me lying unconscious.”
“You’ve been around here quite awhile, haven’t you?” the policeman was asking Old Herm.
“Nigh onto ten years now. And it’s been a mighty tedious life, a dreary existence—walkin’ to the third floor, walkin’ to the fifth floor, walkin’ to the basement, ringin’ the rounds registers, lookin’ for burglars that ain’t there. No, sir, in all my years I never scared up an intruder—not one! And me a brave man able to take care of myself.”
A light of childish bravado shone in Old Herm’s eyes, and the officer directed a covert wink at Flash.
“Suppose we check on that time register,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” Old Herm mumbled. “Just come with me.”
He led Flash and the policeman to the sixth floor. The register, which was located in the front part of the building, gave conclusive proof that it had been punched at the hour Old Herm claimed.
“You see, it’s just like I told you,” the watchman declared. “I don’t know what this is all about, but I been tendin’ strictly to my work all evening. And I ain’t seen no one in the building except those that have a right to be here.”
“It probably was an inside job,” the officer commented, dropping the lost key into the watchman’s hand.
“Was something stole?” Old Herm asked anxiously.
“A film from the photography department,” responded the policeman briefly.
“An important one,” added Flash. “I had just finished developing it when someone slugged me on the head.”
“Shoo, you don’t say!” Old Herm muttered. “That’s bad. Nasty lookin’ cut, too. Will it get you into trouble, losin’ your picture?”
“It won’t do me any good,” Flash returned.
Turning, he followed the police officer down the hall, leaving the old watchman to stare after them.
When they were beyond earshot, Flash said: “You were satisfied with his story?”
“Oh sure,” replied the policeman carelessly. “You were right. He’s only a foolish old fellow. No motive for the crime.”
“For that matter, what reason would anyone in the building have for doing such a trick? A personal grudge against me?”
“Might have been. I’m satisfied it was an inside job and not the work of any of the arson gang.”
After the officer had gone, Flash returned to the darkroom for his hat. As he passed through the news room a moment later, the editor stopped him at the desk.
“Here’s something that may interest you,” he said, thrusting a sheet of copy paper into Flash’s hand. “One of our reporters just brought it in. About ten minutes ago an old man named Andy Simpson was run over by an automobile and killed.”
“Andy Simpson!” Flash exclaimed. “Not the watchman at the Fenmore warehouse!”
“Same fellow.”
“Run over deliberately?”
“No. It appears he was dazed or had been drinking too much. Anyway, according to the story of the motorist, he ignored the traffic lights and walked straight into the path of the car.”
“Andy Simpson was the one person who could have thrown new light on the arson case,” Flash muttered. “He met ‘H. J.,’ the man who is supposed to be the brains of the arson gang. Now the police never will be able to get a description.”
He read the brief item through and handed it back to the editor. Never had he felt more discouraged. With Andy Simpson dead, his missing picture was of greater importance than ever. But it was definitely gone. He never would see it again.
While no word of blame was spoken, Flash saw several reporters glancing at him with a peculiar expression. By morning everyone on theLedgerwould have heard the story.
“I’m getting a record for failures,” he thought as he made his way to the street. “Unless I can figure out who is at the bottom of tonight’s attack, things may keep on happening.”
The previous mishaps, while personally humiliating, had not been so serious. But now, with Andy Simpson dead, the loss of the picture undoubtedly meant that the higher-ups in the arson ring never would be brought to trial.
As the bus rolled along the deserted neighborhood street, Flash turned over in his mind every possible person who might have been responsible for the vicious attack. Aside from members of the arson ring, Fred Orris and Old Herm seemed the most likely suspects. The watchman had a perfect alibi, so that left only the head photographer.
“There’s Luke Frowein of theGlobe,” Flash mused. “He would enjoy seeing me lose my job. But he couldn’t have known about the warehouse affair.”
A light was burning in the Evans cottage as the bus drew up a short distance away. Flash walked rapidly, realizing that his mother must be waiting up for him.
Hearing his step on the front porch, she opened the door.
“You shouldn’t have waited up, Mother,” he protested.
“Jimmy!” she exclaimed in horror. “Your forehead! You’ve been in an accident!”
“It’s nothing.”
Despite his protests, she hastened to the medicine cabinet for iodine and adhesive tape. As she bathed and bandaged the wound, she drew from Flash an account of what had occurred.
He ended by saying: “This was extra work I was doing tonight, so I’ll not be fired. But I figure it’s bound to come before many weeks. Someone is out to get my job!”
“I almost wish you would lose it,” Mrs. Evans shuddered. “Since you started work at theLedger, I’ve not had an easy moment. I’m so afraid something dreadful will happen to you. If only you hadn’t become mixed up in this arson affair!”
“I had a close call tonight,” Flash admitted. “But the same thing isn’t likely to happen twice. What makes me sore is that by losing the picture, I’ve fixed it so the real head of the arson gang never will be captured.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“Maybe not, but the result is the same. I muffed a wonderful opportunity to round up those men, get a scoop for theLedger, and at the same time make a name for myself.”
“Things have been running against you,” his mother murmured sympathetically, “but it can’t continue that way indefinitely.”
“It can, unless I do some tall thinking,” he replied grimly. “Someone in the office has been after my job from the day I started work there!”
“You’re alluding to that man, Fred Orris?” his mother asked in a quiet voice.
“I’ve heard he has someone in mind for my job. But I don’t know whom I suspect. The thing has me completely baffled.”
“From what you’ve told me of Mr. Orris, it scarcely seems to me he would be the type of man to resort to a brutal attack. If I were you, I should be very careful about accusing anyone.”
“Oh, I know better than to do that,” Flash promised gravely. “But from now on, I’m trusting no one! And I may think of some scheme to trap that fellow, whoever he is!”
Flash awoke the next morning to find himself clawing the bed clothing and fighting for breath. He had been dreaming that he was locked in a death struggle with a masked man who had attacked him in a dark alley.
“Wow! What a nightmare!” he gasped. “Worse than the real thing!”
He became aware that someone was rapping on the bedroom door.
“Wake up, Jimmy!” his mother called. “It’s almost seven!”
His feet struck the floor. “Be right up,” he answered. “I didn’t hear the alarm go off.”
Dressing hurriedly, he snatched a cup of coffee, and raced out the front door just as his bus came into view. He barely reached it, swinging aboard a moment before the door slammed shut. Flash dropped a dime into the coin box and sagged into an empty seat beside an elderly white-haired gentleman with a cane.
“You catch a bus the same way your father always did,” chuckled his companion. “He never was a man to waste any time waiting, either.”
Startled, Flash glanced quickly at the elderly man. He was certain he had never seen him anywhere before.
“You knew my father?” he inquired in astonishment.
“Jimmy Evans, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Thought so,” the man nodded. “Yes, I knew your father years ago when we worked together on thePost. You’re the spittin’ image of him, and you have the same mannerisms. When you swung on that bus, I said to myself, ‘that spry young fellow is Evans’ son.’ My name is Thomas Brown.”
“I’m glad to meet you, sir,” Flash responded heartily. “I guess you know my father died several years ago.”
“Yes, I saw a notice in the paper.” The man nodded sadly. “It hit me hard when I heard about it. I thought a lot of your father. Working on a paper yourself?”
“TheLedger. But I don’t know how long I’ll last,” Flash admitted with a grin. “I’m new there and I’ve run into a little trouble.”
“There’s always plenty of it waiting to pounce on a man these days,” Mr. Brown said philosophically. “Well, don’t let it get you down.”
“I don’t aim to run up the white flag yet. I’m in for the duration of the war.”
“That’s the spirit,” the old man approved. “I remember once when I thought I was licked. Your father pulled me out of that jam, and I’ve always been grateful.”
“Tell me about it, sir,” urged Flash.
“It’s not much of a story. I worked in the cashier’s office at thePost. From time to time we kept missing small amounts of money. The blame fell on me and I was about to be discharged.
“But your father didn’t agree with the other higher-ups that I was the guilty person. He took it upon himself to do a little investigating of his own.”
“With the result that you were cleared?” Flash questioned.
“Yes, it turned out that a new employee, a young fellow named Ronne, had been taking the money. He was real clever at it, but not smart enough to fool your father.”
“Did you say Ronne?” Flash asked in a startled voice.
“Yes, his name was Dick Ronne. He would be a middle-aged man by this time. Never did hear what became of him after he was discharged.”
The old man pressed a signal bell, and Flash arose to let him out of the seat.
“Well, glad to have met you,” Mr. Brown murmured. “Don’t let that trouble, whatever it is, get the best of you. Your father would have licked it!”
“Thank you, sir,” smiled Flash. “You’ve given me something to think about.”
And it was true, although not exactly in the way that Mr. Brown understood. The conversation had suggested to the young photographer a most startling possibility.
Old Herm’s last name was Ronne, and Ronne by no means was a common name. Flash recalled that Joe Wells had mentioned something about the watchman having had a son who was no longer living. Could it be that Dick Ronne, the person his father had caused to be discharged years before, was Old Herm’s son?
“First chance I get I’m going to ask Joe more about it,” he told himself.
So deeply was Flash absorbed in his thoughts that the bus went past his stop before he was aware of it. Jumping off at the next corner he walked hurriedly back to theLedgerbuilding. He was five minutes late for work.
Fred Orris, hat pushed back on his head, was repairing the bellows of a camera as Flash entered the photography department. He made no direct comment upon the arson story or what had occurred in the darkroom the previous night. Instead he said sharply:
“You’re fifteen minutes late, Evans.”
“Five,” corrected Flash. “This clock is fast.”
“Get over to the courthouse and shoot some pictures of the Fulton murder trial. And bring them back, too. Remember, we want pictures, not adventure stories!”
A glint of anger flamed in Flash’s eyes. He went over to the locked case for his camera and equipment, deliberately taking his time.
“Orris,” he said coolly, “the elevator man tells me you were in the building last night between eleven and eleven-thirty.”
“So what?”
“Maybe you didn’t hear what happened to me in the darkroom last night.”
“Listen,” Orris flared, “are you trying to intimate that I had anything to do with it?”
“I’m just checking up. Thought you might have noticed someone hanging around the halls.”
“Well, I didn’t,” the photographer answered shortly. “What’s more, I was here on legitimate business. I came back to leave a memorandum on Dan Dewey’s desk.”
Flash made no answer. He slipped the camera strap over his shoulder and went out the door. All morning he was kept busy at the courthouse, shooting pictures of witnesses, prosecutor, judge, jury and defense attorneys. He had no time to think of his own problem, for he was compelled to be constantly alert lest he miss an opportunity to photograph an unusual facial expression. The break he awaited came when the defendant lost control of himself for a moment and became consumed with rage.
Some of his pictures Flash had sent back to theLedgerby messenger. He carried the remaining holders with him, and upon developing them, took the precaution of locking himself into the darkroom.
His work completed without mishap, he dropped across the street for a belated lunch. On the stool next to him sat aLedgerreporter who covered the police and fire departments.
“Anything new on the arson case?” Flash inquired.
The reporter shook his head.
“That fellow Slater refuses to talk. And if the police have found any evidence against the so-called North Brandale Insurance Company they’re not giving it out. Too bad that picture you took last night was stolen. They say it might have cleared up the case.”
Flash nodded gloomily.
“It was a dandy picture. And one of the men was supposed to be the brains of the outfit. ‘H. J.’ they called him.”
“Police haven’t any idea who broke into the darkroom and cracked you?”
“No. They thought it must have been an inside job. They didn’t even take fingerprints because so many persons had smeared around the place.”
“Too bad,” the reporter remarked again, and devoted himself to his bowl of chile.
Flash had not forgotten his talk with old Mr. Brown. At the first opportunity upon his return to the office he sought Joe Wells and quietly questioned him about Old Herm.
“I’ve told you all I know,” the photographer insisted. “Why this sudden interest? You surely don’t think poor Old Herm sneaked in here last night and blackjacked you?”
“I haven’t any definite theory,” Flash replied evasively.
“Well, don’t get ideas about Old Herm. He’s simple minded, but hardly a criminal. Why, the fellow has a crippled leg—”
“Just the same, he could have done it. He’s strong as an ox.”
“You’re almost as goofy as Old Herm,” Wells scoffed. “First you think Orris did it, and next you blame the watchman. Maybe it was Riley!”
“I’m not accusing anyone,” Flash defended himself. “All I’m doing is trying to check every angle and keep an open mind.”
“Doesn’t sound very open to me. I’ll grant you some mighty queer things have been going on here, though. I’m getting the creeps myself when I close myself into the darkroom.”
“The next time our mysterious visitor pays a call he may not be so gentle in his methods,” replied Flash. “We ought to get him before he gets us!”
“Why not make Colt 45’s standard equipment for allLedgerphotographers,” Wells said jokingly. “We could have target practice out in the auto lot.”
“You wouldn’t be laughing so hard if you had been the one to get cracked,” Flash retorted. “Tell me something. What was the name of Old Herm’s son?”
“Never heard it. Why don’t you ask him?”
“That’s an idea,” said Flash. “Maybe I will.”
Since the watchman did not come on duty until after the day workers had left the building, it meant that to talk with the old fellow he must make a special trip back to theLedger. Flash decided it might be well worth his trouble.
Accordingly, he remained downtown that evening. After attending a movie he returned to the nearly deserted building. Locating Old Herm on the third floor, Flash pretended to run into him by accident.
“Workin’ late again?” the watchman inquired, pausing in surprise.
“No, just dropped in for a minute. I see they keep you busy.”
“I’m at it without a let-up,” the old man sighed. “Since the darkroom was busted into, the building superintendent clamped down on me hard—said I wasn’t payin’ attention to my duties. ‘You jest follow me around for a night,’ I says to him.”
Herm rambled on for several minutes, but presently Flash deftly switched the subject. After talking about the past he casually asked the old fellow the name of his son.
“It was Richard,” Herm answered and a different expression came over his wrinkled face. “My boy died when he was only twenty. Four years older than you be. They crucified him! They killed him!”
“Whom do you mean?” Flash questioned in a puzzled voice.
But old Herm did not answer. Tears rolled down his withered cheeks. Turning his back upon Flash, he hobbled painfully away.
With mingled feelings of sympathy and misgiving, Flash watched the old man depart. He felt sorry for the watchman who obviously still brooded over the death of his son.
From the conversation he had gleaned one fact of importance. Old Herm’s son had been named Richard, which tended to make him believe that the boy could have been the same one Mr. Brown mentioned. Then, too, weeks before, the watchman had said that he had known Flash’s father. It was something to think about.
Returning home, Flash found his mother locking up the house for the night.
“Sorry to be so late,” he apologized. “I waited at the office to talk with Old Herm who doesn’t come on duty until evening.”
“You seem to have taken a deep liking to that old watchman,” his mother commented with a smile.
“Not exactly a liking,” Flash corrected. “Herm is an interesting character. By the way, Mother, did you ever hear Father speak of an employee at thePostnamed Ronne?”
“Ronne?” she repeated thoughtfully. “The name sounds familiar. Oh, yes, I remember, because of the trouble it caused your father. There was a young man employed at thePost, who was discharged for stealing funds.”
“Not Richard or Dick Ronne?”
“I’m not certain, but I believe that was his first name.”
“Was it Father’s fault he was discharged?”
“He was the one who discovered the theft, I believe. Another employee had been blamed.”
“Thomas Brown.”
“Why, yes,” Mrs. Evans acknowledged in surprise. “But how did you know, Jimmy? I don’t recall ever having mentioned it before.”
Flash explained that he had fallen into conversation with the old man on the bus. However, he did not worry his mother by revealing why he was so eager for additional information.
“Did you ever hear what became of Dick Ronne after he was discharged from thePost?” he questioned. “Was he sent to jail?”
“No, your father persuaded the owner of the paper to take a lenient attitude. Later he was glad that he did for the boy died. It was an unfortunate case.”
“What caused the boy’s death, Mother?”
“I can’t tell you that because I never was particularly interested. I remember your father went to see him at the hospital, and for his kindness received a bitter tongue lashing from the boy’s father.”
“You never saw the man yourself, I suppose?”
“Dick Ronne’s father? No, nor the boy either. But why are you so interested, Jimmy?”
“Well, I thought Old Herm Ronne might have been the boy’s father. He had a son by that name who died, and he knew Dad.”
“Dear me,” murmured Mrs. Evans, frowning. “And the old fellow works in your building?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Flash said quickly. “He’s always been very friendly. I rarely ever see him.”
Dismissing the subject, he locked the remaining doors for his mother, and followed her up the stairway.
“I want to get up early in the morning,” he said carelessly. “If my alarm doesn’t go off at five be sure to wake me.”
“Five!” his mother gasped. “My, but you are ambitious!”
Flash did not tell her what he had in mind. He had decided to try to learn more about Old Herm, his habits, and where he lived. If his plan came to nothing, no one need ever know that he had regarded the watchman with suspicion.
Even before the alarm went off at five o’clock, Flash was awake. He dressed quietly, and brewing himself a strong cup of coffee, caught a bus going downtown.
Timing himself, he drew near the rear entrance of theLedgerbuilding at exactly six o’clock, the hour Old Herm went off duty. He stepped into the loading dock where Jeff, a colored boy, was polishing a car.
“Lookin’ for someone, suh?” the lad asked.
“Has Old Herm come out yet?”
“Ain’t seen him.”
Flash loitered where he could watch the rear door. Within a few minutes men from the night shift began to trickle out in twos and threes. Old Herm was one of the last. The watchman did not glance toward the loading dock. With a tin lunch pail swinging from his arm, he started off down the street.
Waiting until the old man was some distance away, Flash followed. It was the first time in his life that he had deliberately set himself the task of trailing an acquaintance, and he felt somewhat ridiculous.
Old Herm, unaware that he was being observed, walked several blocks, and entered a restaurant which specialized in twenty-five cent plate lunches. Flash crossed the street and spent nearly half an hour waiting for the watchman to come out again.
“This was a crazy idea anyhow,” he thought. “Herm may not go to his home for hours. And I’m due to show up for work at eight.”
Just at that moment the watchman came out of the café. Flash turned his back quickly, pretending to gaze into a store window. The old man did not see him.
Again Old Herm started off at a leisurely pace, walking toward the waterfront. Flash correctly guessed that he was heading for a cheap rooming house district located in that particular section of Brandale.
Presently the watchman climbed the steps of a dingy, brownstone front building, and entered. Flash carefully noted down the address. Then he walked back to the main section of the city, had breakfast, and reached theLedgerin time for work.
Throughout the day, the young photographer was rather preoccupied. Fortunately, his assignments were of a routine nature, requiring no special thought or effort. He was glad when four o’clock came.
Flash went home for dinner, but immediately afterwards he gathered up a stack of books to return to the public library. Leaving them there, he then was free to carry out his plan.
Eight o’clock found him at Old Herm’s rooming place. Without ringing the bell, he entered the front hall. Scanning the mail boxes he saw that the watchman occupied suite 15.
Moving noiselessly up the dark stairway, Flash located the number on the second floor. He listened a moment and tested the door. It was locked as he had anticipated. However, he was fully prepared, having provided himself with a skeleton key.
The lock was of the common type. Flash gained entrance without difficulty and took the precaution of re-fastening the door. He switched on a light.
A hasty glance about revealed a dirty, untidy two-room apartment. Old Herm had not bothered to make his bed after rolling out of it. Nor had he washed the pile of dishes in the sink.
Flash moved quickly to the window, lowering a shade which was half way up. While he knew the watchman would be at work, he did not care to attract the attention of any other person in the building.
Turning around once more, his gaze focused upon a picture of a young man. It stood on the center table, mounted in an expensive gold frame. Beneath it, lay a white carnation.
“That must be a picture of Dick Ronne,” thought Flash. “Poor old Herm!”
His conscience gave him a twinge. Perhaps he was unjust and overly suspicious to entertain distrustful thoughts. The watchman couldn’t help being queer. Probably his son’s death had made him that way.
Now that Flash actually had gained entrance to the bedroom, the possibility that Old Herm had wielded the blackjack seemed more remote than ever.
“But since I’m here, I may as well look around,” he decided. “I feel like a crook doing it though!”
Taking care to disturb nothing, he began a systematic inspection of the room. He pulled out bureau drawers, looking beneath piles of shirts and underclothing. There was no sign of a blackjack or any weapon which possibly could arouse suspicion.
Flash had convinced himself that further search was useless when his gaze roamed back to the center table. Several books were lying there. The title of one of the volumes captured his attention. It was called “Newspaper Photography.” And beside the book was a more technical treatment on the subject of darkroom procedure.
“Now why would Old Herm be interested in photography?” mused Flash. “I don’t believe he even owns a camera.”
Opening one of the volumes at random, he found several marked passages which had to do with the mixing of chemicals.
As Flash read one of the paragraphs, he heard a heavy step outside the door. The next moment a key rattled in the lock. Someone was coming to investigate!
Dropping the book, Flash barely had time to reach up and snap off the light. In panic he glanced about for a place to hide. There was no time even to cross the room to a closet. He chose the only available place—under the bed.
Barely had he rolled beneath it when the outside door opened. The light was switched on.
Flash could see only the feet and legs of the man who had entered, but from the uneven step he knew instantly that it was Herm. Why wasn’t the watchman on duty at theLedgeras usual? For all he knew, the old fellow might have been taken ill and had returned home for the night.
Clearly he, Flash Evans, was in a predicament.
The old man did not appear to notice that a blind had been pulled down in the bedroom. Lowering himself into a comfortable chair, he sighed audibly. His shoes thudded on the bare floor as he jerked them off. For a long while there was no other sound.
Daring to peer forth, Flash saw that the watchman was reading one of the books on photography.
“Wonder why Herm has the evening off?” he thought. “He certainly doesn’t look or act sick.”
While Flash suffered both mental and physical discomfort in his cramped quarters under the bed, the old man continued to read. An hour elapsed. The photographer was afraid to shift his position lest he make a noise which would betray his presence.
When it seemed to him that every muscle of his body had twisted into a knot, Old Herm put aside the book. He pulled on his shoes again, brewed himself a cup of coffee, and then donned warmer outer clothing.
“Back to the old grind,” Flash heard him mutter. “Bells, bells, bells! Always a-ringin’ the darn things.”
A moment later, the watchman switched off the lights, and leaving the apartment, locked the door behind him.
Flash waited until the footsteps had died away. Then he rolled out from under the bed, brushing dust from his suit.
Without bothering to glance again at the photography books, he unlocked the door with his skeleton key, stepped out into the deserted hall, and locked the door after himself. He reached the street in time to catch a glimpse of the watchman disappearing around a corner.
Flash believed that Old Herm meant to return to theLedgeroffice. To make certain he followed.
Drawing near the newspaper building, the watchman turned down an alley and emerged at the loading dock where Jeff, the colored boy was working.
“I’m back now, Jeff,” he said.
“Okay, boss,” the boy responded. “I done just like you told me.”
Old Herm took a coin from his hand and gave it to Jeff. With a friendly nod, he went on into the building.
Flash waited an interval before approaching the colored boy. Perching himself on the platform near the paper chute, he watched Jeff polish a windshield to a high gloss.
“Lookin’ fer someone?” the boy asked.
“Just killing time,” Flash returned. “How are you making out these days, Jeff? Get quite a few cars to polish?”
“Ten steady customers now,” the colored boy said proudly. “I ain’t doin’ bad.”
“I suppose you pick up a little extra money now and then, doing odd jobs around the building?”
“Yes, suh!”
“Old Herm?”
“Ah earned fifty cents from Herm dis last week. De easiest money ah made, too!”
“And what job do you look after for him?” Flash inquired.
Jeff shook his head and grinned. “Ah ain’t ’llowed to tell, suh. Old Herm get in trouble if de boss find out.”
Flash understood the colored boy well enough to know that he would divulge the information if offered a small bribe. But he surmised that Jeff then would reveal to Old Herm who had questioned him. He decided to allow the matter to rest.
“I can guess what Herm has been doing,” he told himself as he slid down from the platform. “And if I’m right, his alibi on the night I lost my arson picture isn’t worth a nickel!”
Debating a moment, Flash entered theLedgerbuilding. After exploring several floors he finally located the watchman in the deserted composing room. Old Herm, who was peering into a supply cupboard, did not see the photographer until he was close by.
Startled, he slammed the cupboard door shut and stood with his back to it, facing Flash.
“Oh, it’s you!” he exclaimed. “You scared the daylights out o’ me, coming in so quiet-like.”
“I believe a burglar could carry off half the building and you never would know it, Herm,” Flash said in a joking tone.
“It ain’t so!” the watchman denied vigorously. “I make my rounds every hour just as I’m supposed to do.”
“How come I couldn’t find you around during the last hour?”
“Were you lookin’ for me?” Old Herm asked innocently. “Did you go down into the basement?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“That’s probably where I was. What is it you want?”
“Nothing now,” replied Flash. “It’s too late. Well, so long, see you tomorrow.”
Without a backward glance, he sauntered from the composing room and made his way to the street. Riding home in the bus, he thought over what he had learned. Old Herm was not the honest, genial person he once had believed him to be. The watchman neglected his duties, lied about it, and displayed a decided tendency to pry.
“Wonder what he was doing in that supply cupboard when I surprised him?” he reflected. “Old Herm acted as guilty as the dickens!”
Flash still was thinking about the matter when he went to work the next morning. He rode up the elevator with Joe Wells and they entered the photography department together.
“You haven’t solved the darkroom mystery yet?” the older photographer asked jokingly. “Who slugged you and why?”
Flash shook his head.
“Not yet, but I have a few clues. You know, I’m becoming convinced Old Herm might have had something to do with it.”
Wells laughed. “Any evidence?”
“I’ve learned Herm has been neglecting his duties here. Now and then he slips off home while he’s supposed to be at work.”
Wells showed surprise at the information, but he did not interpret the matter as Flash had expected.
“Old Herm will lose his job if you spread the story around,” he replied.
“And doesn’t he deserve it?”
“Maybe,” Wells shrugged, “but if Herm lost this job he’d never get another. As far as watching the building is concerned, he never was any good. But he’s a fixture at theLedger. All the boys like him.”
“And for that reason I’m to let him crack me on the head—”
“You’re cracked now!” Wells interrupted with a trace of impatience. “Herm is an inefficient, simple old fellow, but he’s harmless. If you ask me, it’s not very sporting of you to try to throw the blame upon him. Better get a new theory.”
A wave of anger swept over Flash, but it was gone in an instant. In a way, Joe was giving him a warning it would be well to heed. He had forgotten how affectionately Old Herm was regarded by many of the employees of theLedger. Any hints or direct accusations against the watchman would only serve to rally many loyal defenders.
“Some day I’ll learn to keep thoughts to myself,” he reflected grimly. “What I need is absolute proof!”
Flash knew of no way to gain evidence against the old man, and he had moments when he even doubted that the fellow was responsible for the loss of the arson picture.
“But if Herm didn’t do it, then it must be Fred Orris,” he reasoned. “Both of them had the opportunity.”
And then an idea came to Flash. In thinking over past events, it dawned upon him that always when he had encountered difficulties in the darkroom, he had been working on an important story. Evidently the person who plotted his undoing bided his time, waiting until he was in possession of an unusual picture.
“I’ll set up a camera trap in the darkroom!” he decided. “Then I’ll pass around the word that I have some remarkable shots! That should prove enticing bait for my victim!”
His mind made up, Flash only awaited a suitable opportunity for putting his plan into effect. Knowing that Fred Orris nearly always dropped into the office late Tuesday night after the theatre, he chose that evening to carry out his scheme.
Slipping into the office when it was deserted, Flash set up his camera in a corner of the darkroom, focusing it upon the drying machine. Two feet away he stretched a cord and fastened it to the camera trigger. The slightest pressure upon the cord would open the lens and set off the flash bulb.
“Now if only one of the regular photographers doesn’t barge in here before I’m ready!” Flash told himself.
Taking another camera from the equipment case, he left the newspaper building. Crossing the street to the café, he took a table by the window where he could watch the main entrance of theLedger. Presently he saw Fred Orris arrive.
“Now my act begins!” Flash thought. “And if it doesn’t come off as I plan, I’m going to look plenty silly.”
He quickly left the café and returned to theLedgeroffice. As he swung through the revolving doors of the front entrance he saw that luck was favoring him. Fred Orris had paused in the circulation office to chat for a moment with Old Herm. He would be able to clip two birds with one stone!
“Where’s the fire, Evans?” Fred Orris demanded as he rushed past the two men.
“Big story!” Flash tossed over his shoulder, barely pausing. “Didn’t you hear about the riot?”
“Riot! No! Where?”
“Silverman’s Chain Store warehouse. Employees have been on a strike there for a week. Tonight the fireworks started!”
The “fireworks” consisted of a rock having been thrown through a warehouse window, but Flash allowed the two men to draw their own conclusions.
Fred Orris gazed after the young photographer with an expression of mingled envy and irritation.