  All day Sunday Flash remained deeply depressed. He had been almost certain that his pictures would be used in the Ledger. They had been remarkably clear prints, showing Sam Davis in action poses. He didn’t like to think that the pictures had been withheld because of policy, yet he could reach no other conclusion. “Your old sheet must be afraid to buck the rackets,” commented Jerry Hayes who dropped in during the afternoon. “I can’t understand it,” Flash confessed. “The Ledger has a reputation for being a fighting paper. And there was nothing libelous in my pictures.” “Maybe the editor was afraid to make a direct accusation against the North Brandale Insurance Company without proof.” “That’s possible,” admitted Flash, “but it still doesn’t explain why my pictures weren’t used. They told a story of their own. It wouldn’t have been necessary to implicate the insurance company. By the way, did you ever hear of such an outfit, Jerry?” “Never did.” “Probably it’s a fake company, just as Sam Davis believes. Anyway, the name isn’t listed in the telephone directory. Looks to me as if the Ledger is missing a chance for a big story.” “And some good pictures,” added Jerry, grinning. “Well, cheer up. Maybe they’ll be printed in tomorrow’s paper.” Upon his way to work Monday morning, Flash bought an early edition of the Ledger. A hasty glance assured him that his pictures had not been used. Riley was occupied making out an assignment sheet when Flash passed his desk. He did not glance up. Flash hesitated, then paused and spoke. “I see you didn’t use my fire pictures, Mr. Riley.” “What’s that?” the editor barked. Flash repeated his words. “Fire pictures?” Riley demanded. “Didn’t find anything of the sort on my desk.” “I left an envelope with a note of explanation. That was late Saturday night.” “Better ask Clingston about it,” said Riley carelessly. “He came on at midnight.” Flash nodded and entered the photography department. The room was deserted. He debated a moment, then looked up Clingston’s telephone number and placed a call. A sleepy voice answered: “Yeah? Clingston speaking.” Flash nearly lost his courage as he realized he had aroused the man from his bed. But he said tersely: “This is Evans. I’m checking up on some pictures of the Sam Davis fire. I left them on the city desk late Saturday night.” “Didn’t find them,” the editor answered. “That’s funny. They were in an envelope.” Flash described the pictures, repeating what Sam Davis had told him. “We could have used those shots,” Clingston said regretfully. “Too bad they were lost.” “I don’t see how it could have happened.” “The janitor may have brushed the envelope into the waste basket by mistake.” “Shall I print them up again?” “No use now,” Clingston returned. “The story is two days old.” Flash hung up the receiver just as Fred Orris entered the office. He thoughtfully watched the head photographer as he hung his hat on a peg. “Orris,” he began abruptly. “Well?” “When you came into the building Saturday night did you notice an envelope of pictures lying on the city desk?” “No, I didn’t,” Orris answered shortly. “What of it?” “I left some there—fire pictures. They disappeared before Clingston came on duty.” Orris shot Flash a sharp, questioning glance. “Say, just what are you trying to suggest?” “Nothing.” “Well, I trust not,” the head photographer muttered grimly. “I don’t know anything about your pictures and care less. My wife and I dropped in here after the theatre to telephone for a taxi. The trouble with you Evans, you’re always looking for an easy way out.” An angry flush stained Flash’s face. With an effort, he kept from making a sharp retort. Orris would like nothing better than to draw him into a fight, and then request his dismissal. Getting up abruptly from the telephone table, he went into the darkroom and closed the door. He distrusted the head photographer more than ever now. Orris hadn’t liked him from the day he had started work on the Ledger. While he had no proof that the man had destroyed his pictures, a suspicion took root in his mind. After this he would be more careful than ever, remaining constantly on the alert for treachery. Thinking there was a possibility that the janitor knew something of the matter, Flash sought the man. He likewise questioned a scrub woman who cleaned the news room at night. As he fully expected, neither of them could throw any light upon the mystery. All the waste paper baskets had been emptied, and if ever the pictures had been consigned there, they were burned. Later that morning, Flash was testing his camera, when Riley stepped into the office, a batch of prints in his hand. “Anything wrong?” Fred Orris asked in alarm. “Nothing in particular,” Riley replied. “I was wondering why we can’t have these pictures printed with a duller finish. Give ’em a softer tone.” “But Mr. Riley, all the other editors want glossy prints.” “Is there any reason why I can’t have a duller finish?” “Well, yes, there is,” Orris responded in a conciliatory tone. “You see, the ferrotype machine only dries the prints one way—with a gloss.” “Then I guess I’ll have to take them this way.” Riley shrugged and started to move off. Flash, who had been listening to the conversation, stepped forward. “I know how you can have your dull-finish pictures, Mr. Riley,” he stated. “Oh, you do?” interposed Orris, an edge to his voice. “Suppose you tell us!” “I was trying it out the other day,” explained Flash. “All you need to do is to place the print between blotting paper when you put it on the ferrotype machine.” “And what finish will it make?” Riley inquired with interest. “I’ll show you,” Flash offered. “I think I have a few samples in my portfolio.” He brought the prints. Riley glanced at them and beamed. “This is what I want! Orris, let me have my prints like these.” “As you wish,” the head photographer returned surlily, “but I doubt if they’ll make as good cuts as the regular glossy prints.” After Riley had gone, Orris offered no comment. He experimented in the darkroom, and gave orders to the other photographers how the new prints were to be made. While he neither praised nor criticised Flash, his attitude made it evident that he considered the young man something of a pest. However, the new prints made an attractive change in the Ledger, and Riley was pleased. Three days later, after an uneventful afternoon, Flash and Joe Wells were lounging in the photography department, waiting for their trick to end. It was not quite four o’clock. “Never saw things so dull since I’ve been on the Ledger,” Joe Wells yawned. “A few more days like this, and we’ll be laid off.” Flash took his friend seriously. “I’ll be the first one to go,” he said, “because I’m the youngest man.” “Oh, I don’t know,” Wells replied. “We didn’t need an extra photographer when Riley hired you. He took you on because you showed a lot of promise. Your work has been all right, too.” “But nothing spectacular.” “Spectacular pictures don’t drop into a fellow’s lap every day. You’ll get your big chance one of these days, Flash.” The door opening into the news room stood ajar. From where they were they could hear the teletype machines pounding out their news from all parts of the country. Suddenly everyone in the office was startled to hear a steady jingle of the signal bell, followed by Riley’s excited shout: “The Alexander has gone down!” Flash and the other photographers ran into the adjoining room, crowding about the teletype machine. The first bulletin was brief, stating little more than the bare fact that the great passenger liner had sunk less than fifty miles from New York, following a violent explosion. Three hundred American passengers, nearly all of them holiday tourists, had been taken aboard the steamship Belmonia which was making for New York. Ten persons were known to be dead, and thirty were missing. “There were several Brandale passengers on the Alexander,” Riley recalled excitedly. “We ran a story about two weeks ago. Adams, check on that angle!” As new bulletins kept coming in, every department was spurred to action. Long distance telephone calls were placed to correspondents in New York. But Riley felt that the story was too important to be handled in a routine way. “We want pictures! Lots of ’em!” he muttered. “I have it! One of the survivors may have been an amateur photographer—there’s always a few on every ship! If any pictures were taken, and we can get ’em we’ll score a scoop!” A radiogram promptly was dispatched to the rescue ship, Belmonia, with an offer to buy any and all camera films available from the survivors. In a comparatively short while a reply was returned. It read: “Eight rolls undeveloped film available. Offered at five hundred dollars.” Riley winced at the price but wired back an immediate acceptance. He then dispatched a photographer and two reporters by plane to New York to be on hand when the vessel docked. Even with arrangements made for the films, Riley was uneasy. “Another paper may overbid us,” he fretted. “Then we’ll be sitting high and dry without our pictures.” “How about meeting the ship out at sea?” suggested Joe Wells. Riley thought a moment and nodded. “Good idea, if Captain Sorenson will let you aboard. He has a reputation for being a grouch. Think you can swing it?” “Sure, with a good pilot. How about Dave French?” “I’ll charter his plane and have it waiting by the time you reach the airport,” Riley promised. “And I’ll radio Sorenson to be on the lookout for you. You may be able to get some good shots of the survivors yourself.” “I’ll take plenty of holders,” Wells said, starting toward the photography room. “May as well send another man with you,” Riley added. His gaze wandered from one eager face to another. Fred Orris moved a step forward as if anticipating that he would be chosen. Riley’s eye traveled past him and came to rest upon Flash. “Evans! You’ll go with Wells. On your way out, stop at the cashier’s desk for money. Pay whatever you must to get those films, but don’t come back without them!” |
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