  Joe Wells’ words proved prophetic. When the pay checks were handed out Saturday night, Flash’s salary had been increased from twenty-five to thirty dollars. After the first thrill of surprise, the raise gave him no lasting pleasure. He knew he hadn’t actually earned the money. Then, too, in some manner word circled the office by means of the “grapevine” system that he had been singled out for Cordell Burman’s favor. Fred Orris treated him with increasing austerity, seldom missing an opportunity to make cutting remarks. The other photographers, save Wells, remained aloof, no doubt feeling that they had been slighted. Flash could not really blame them. He did his work efficiently, giving Orris and Riley no chance to criticize. The freighter pictures earned him a measure of respect, but in the days following he was given only routine assignments. One morning he was waiting for the elevator when two reporters came down the hallway together. “Anything new on the Elston fire, Bill?” asked one. “Nothing you dare print,” shrugged his companion. “I was talking with the Fire Chief yesterday. I gathered that he thought the fire had been set, but I can’t get anything definite out of him. The arson squad refuses to discuss the matter.” Flash digested this bit of information as he rode up to the third floor. Entering the news room, he became aware of a tense atmosphere of excitement. Riley saw him, and motioned him to the desk. “Evans, I want you to get out to the airport. We have a special plane coming in at 10:15 with exclusive pictures of that big airliner crash in the Pennsylvania mountains. Rush them right back so we can get ’em on the wire!” Flash nodded. The morning papers had carried a front page account of the airliner disaster which had shocked the nation, taking a toll of eleven prominent persons. No pictures had appeared, for the accident had occurred in an isolated region of the mountains. A correspondent for the Ledger, one of the first men to reach the scene, had taken camera snaps, sending them by special chartered plane. Flash glanced at the downstairs clock as he left the building. It was only 9:40. He would have ample time to reach the airport before the plane was due to arrive. Boarding a bus, he rode to the outskirts of the city. Alighting at the main entrance to the airport grounds he noticed Luke Frowein coming through the gate. “Hello, Hero,” the photographer greeted him flippantly. “Looking for a fire?” “I’m only an errand boy this time,” Flash replied. He would have passed on, but Luke deliberately halted, blocking the way. “What’s going on out here?” he asked curiously. “Picking up pictures, eh?” “You’ve guessed it.” “There’s no plane due at this hour.” “Oh, we have a special coming in at 10:15,” Flash revealed carelessly. A shrewd, calculating look came into the Globe man’s gray eyes. “Must be something pretty good to merit a special plane. Not by any chance exclusives on the Pennsylvania crash?” “Maybe.” Flash started to move on. “Wait a minute,” said Luke. “If you’re going into the station, Mr. Clausson wants to see you.” “Who is he?” “President of the Triway Aviation Company. He was asking me a minute ago if I had seen you lately. It may be something fairly important. Better catch him before he leaves.” “I never met Mr. Clausson in my life,” declared Flash. “Why would he be asking for me?” “Don’t know,” Luke shrugged. “He may want you to take some publicity pictures. Better see him at any rate.” Flash walked on toward the station. It still lacked five minutes before the special plane was due to arrive. He entered the building and spoke to one of the clerks. “Has Mr. Clausson been here this morning?” “Left only a minute ago,” the man answered. Moving to the window, he pointed out a figure which could be seen walking slowly toward a hangar at the far end of the field. “If you hurry you may be able to catch him.” “Thanks.” Flash walked as fast as he could, overtaking the man at the doorway of the Triway hangars. “Mr. Clausson?” he inquired. “That’s my name. What can I do for you.” “I’m Flash Evans from the Ledger.” “Well?” Flash was somewhat taken aback by this strange response. “Didn’t you wish to see me, sir?” he inquired. Mr. Clausson shook his head. “What gave you that idea?” “I was told by Luke Frowein that you were looking for me.” “Luke Frowein?” the airline official repeated. “Never heard of him.” Flash’s lips tightened into a grim line. “I guess I’ve been made the butt of a joke,” he said. “Sorry to have bothered you.” Turning, he started back toward the station, angry thoughts racing through his mind. Luke Frowein had played a shabby trick upon him! He had been stupid to trust the fellow. The loud drone of an airplane motor caused Flash to glance overhead. A silver-winged monoplane was gliding down over the telephone wires for a fast landing. He knew that it must be the specially chartered Ledger plane. Flash hurried faster. He lost sight of the plane as it dropped below the level of the station building. But upon reaching the runway a minute or two later, he saw that the ship had taxied up to one of the gasoline pumps. He ran toward the pilot who had climbed out of the cockpit. “Is this the Ledger plane?” questioned Flash tersely. “That’s right,” the pilot responded. “May I have the pictures?” “Pictures? I just gave them to a fellow named Evans from the Ledger.” “But I’m Evans!” The pilot stared. “Then someone has pulled a fast one! Fellow in a gray suit stepped up as I landed and said he was Evans from the Ledger. I gave him the package.” “Luke Frowein, a Globe man!” Flash explained grimly. “And I was dumb enough to fall for the trick!” Whirling, he ran down the cement, through the station, to the main gate. There was no sign of Luke Frowein. A taxi cruised slowly past. Flash quickly hailed it. “To the Globe building!” he ordered tersely. “I’ll give you an extra buck if you step on it!” The cab roared along the highway at fifty miles an hour, slowing down only when it reached the city limits. Flash kept close watch of other automobiles as they dodged in and out of traffic, but caught no glimpse of the man he pursued. Presently the taxi pulled up in front of the Globe building. Flash leaped out, and paying the extra fare he had promised, hurried inside. Although the trip from the airport had been made in record time, he was afraid he had arrived too late. He pressed his finger on the elevator button and held it there until the cage descended. “What’s the big idea?” demanded the elevator man indignantly. “I can’t hurry no faster.” “Has Luke Frowein been here in the past fifteen minutes?” “No, he ain’t,” the man snapped. “Anyway, he usually comes in the other door.” Flash ran around to the rear entrance of the building. As he turned the corner, a battered press car wheeled into the loading dock and stopped with a lurch. Luke Frowein climbed down. With a friendly wave of his hand at a trucker who was loading papers, he proceeded toward the rear entrance. Flash had stepped inside the deserted vestibule beyond view. He waited. Whistling a cheerful tune, Luke Frowein entered the building. He quickly broke off as he observed the young photographer. “That was a dirty trick you tried to play on me!” accused Flash. “Give me my pictures!” “Your pictures?” repeated Frowein mockingly. “Don’t know what you’re prattling about, son.” Flash could see a flat, bulky package protruding from the photographer’s overcoat pocket. He tried to seize the parcel. Frowein pushed him roughly back against the wall. “Keep your hands out of my pockets!” he ordered unpleasantly. The cage of the freight elevator had started to descend slowly from the sixth floor. In another minute Flash knew the elevator man would be there to aid Frowein. He acted instinctively. His right arm coiled back, then lashed out in a swift, sure arc. At the end of that arc, Flash’s knuckled fist exploded against the photographer’s chin. Thrown off balance, Frowein reeled, and fell backwards, sprawling awkwardly on the stairway. Before he could get up, Flash leaped on him and jerked the package from his overcoat pocket. One glance convinced him he had made no mistake. The package plainly was marked for the Ledger. “Hey, get off, will you!” Frowein growled. “Can’t you take a little joke?” Flash coolly pocketed the package before removing himself from Frowein’s mid-section. “Your brand of humor doesn’t appeal to me,” he retorted. “And I doubt if it would make such a hit with your editor either!” “See here,” Frowein protested in quick alarm, “you’re not going to spill this, are you? It was only a joke.” “A joke which would have cost me my job!” “I could make it plenty tough for you,” Frowein hinted defensively. “Suppose it should get out that Deems held you up on the Gezzy-Brady fight! But I’m not that sort of fellow. We’ll strike a bargain. You keep your lip buttoned and so will I.” Flash had no intention of carrying the matter further. “All right,” he agreed, helping Frowein to his feet. “We’ll call the whole thing a draw.” The Globe photographer grinned ruefully as he rubbed his chin. “You pack a wicked wallop,” he said grudgingly. The cage door opened and the elevator man peered out at the pair. “What’s going on here?” “Nothing,” muttered Frowein, rescuing his hat from the stairway. “I slipped and fell, that’s all. They ought to keep these vestibules lighted.” Flash had turned toward the door. He could not resist one parting shot. “Well, so long, Frowein,” he tossed cheerfully. “From now on, no more ‘hello, hero,’ stuff. I’m just plain Evans to you.” |
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